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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165839">Angel Of My Dreams</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0r0/pseuds/l0r0'>l0r0</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:55:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0r0/pseuds/l0r0</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Deacon &amp; Reader, John Deacon/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I posted this to tumblr (@dancingdiscofloof) but I mostly read fics on here so I thought I'd give it a shot!</p><p>I got the band name with the help of some random generator so be kind. I’m hoping to introduce in some songs readers may not have heard - I was thinking of “Heart of the Night” by Juice Newton while writing this, hence the single name and album.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Days of Our Lives Documentary Shoot - 2010</p><p>(Brian May and Roger Taylor Joint Interview)</p><p>“The early 80s were huge for us, for sure. I believe we were at our biggest then, internationally speaking,” Brian states, glancing over to Roger.</p><p>“Yes, Another One Bites the Dust really set things a-flame I think. The traveling and playing were constant. The crowds getting bigger by the venue. Parties, hotels, girls, more parties. We were meeting just so many people.”</p><p>“And one of those being a certain American female rock singer?” The interviewer adds quietly from off-camera.</p><p>Roger glances over to him with a questioning look, but Brian catches on quick, like always.</p><p>“Ah yes, that particular rock goddess. We did meet her around then, I believe, yes. Maybe a few years after,” he says knowingly. Still playing along.</p><p>Roger stares into space with a confused look on his face until the realization hits him. “Are we talking about Y/N?” Roger mutters to Brian. “Yes,” Brian chuckles, patting his friend on the shoulder.</p><p>“Oh, what a spit-fire she is! Not back then though. Fred really worked some magic with that one. Almost inseparable those two were,” he laughs out, a wave of nostalgia washing over his face.</p><p>Brian raises his large eyebrows, “Deacy would beg to differ I think.”</p><p>Roger smirks, “Oh, well that’s a whole different story.”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>1982 - MTV Studios, New York City</p><p>You run your hands up and down your thighs, trying to will your left knee to stop repeatedly bouncing up and down. The satin of your pants does nothing for the layer of sweat on your clammy hands. You fold them together in your lap and gaze around the studio instead, taking in the bustling of crew members as they ready for the pre-taped interview. The god-like VJ, Alan Hunter, sits in a chair off to the side as someone artfully pieces his blonde locks into place. He grins over at you with a small wave. You limply lift your hand in a greeting, pasting on a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.</p><p>You catch your pained expression as you glimpse a monitor off-camera. A friendly woman backstage had painted your face to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Gone was the evidence under your eyes of the restless sleep you’d fought the previous night. They were wide and doed, rather than their normal crescent shape. Your lips full and vibrant, your hair bounced and fanned out around your face. And your skin seemed to be glowing, masking the spots that had popped up overnight from stress. You looked every bit the rock goddess the label hoped to paint you as, and the exact opposite of the nerves currently threatening to overtake your body.</p><p>“Y/N, I can feel you vibrating from here. Take a deep breath. It’s gonna be fine.” Rich commented from beside you. His legs were splayed out, his arms bent behind his head. Looking as relaxed as can be, as if he were on his couch at home catching a movie marathon, about to doze off.</p><p>“How can you be so calm right now?” You rush out. “Who knows how many people are going to see this interview. Do you know how many times a day I accidentally let the F word fly out of my mouth?”</p><p>Rich lets out a snort. “I happen to know exactly how much you curse, thank you. Yesterday you said fuck 3 times in one sentence. It was charming, my mom loved it.” He moves his right arm to squeeze around your shoulders. Usually, it would be a comforting display of friendship, but you shake it off.</p><p>“And look at those three. Already so at home, I see,” you nod to the three other members of the band. Steve is exuding energy like yourself, but it’s excitement that bubbles from him. His eyes flit around the room quickly as he taps out some unknown rhythm on his bent legs. A wide grin permanently fixed on his boyish features.</p><p>At the far end of the couch, Eddie and Lawrence are wrapped up in a not-so-silent game of knuckles.</p><p>“Son of a– Will you take off those damn rings? It’s my turn and I’m still getting bruised,” Lawrence huffs. Eddie wiggles his long, skilled, silver-clad fingers in front of his face and raises his eyebrows. “It’s all about the look, baby. Gotta play the part of the guitar god.”</p><p>“Will you both knock it off,” you call over to them. “We need both those sets of hands in playing shape for tomorrow night.”</p><p>Eddie turns, probably to counter with some playful comment about how you mother them too much, but Alan approaches.</p><p>“Alright, guys. And girl.” He flashes his perfectly white teeth your way again. “We’re about 5 minutes out from going up. Anybody need anything? Water, vodka, beer…” He turns his gaze to Steve, who is still tapping lightly on his legs. “A Xanax, perhaps?”</p><p>“Waters all around would be great, thanks,” you offer. Alan nods to a twitchy PA waiting to his side and they hurry off.</p><p>“Oh wait up, a Bud Light too, if you have any!” Eddie calls after them. The other three boys echo the same as well.</p><p>“You can take the boys out of Long Island…” you mutter to yourself. Rich teasingly pokes your side. “And something stiff for the lady!” he shouts out.</p><p>“In all manner of ways,” Steve giggles. You feign a shocked expression and reach over to place a gentle slap to the side of his head. He looks over with big apologetic eyes and you stifle a laugh.</p><p>In record time, the lanky PA rushes back over with a myriad of drinks, all threatening to topple over on the tray they were precariously balanced on. Another PA trails behind, handing you all water, which you’re in desperate need of. They hand the drinks out one by one and stop before you. “Your water, Miss. And I didn’t know what you liked so I have a jack and coke, a whiskey sour, and a gin and tonic.”</p><p>“The gin and tonic is great, thanks.” They hurriedly hand you the drink and go to turn away. “Love your hair by the way,” you tell them. “I’m absolute shit at styling mine. Guess I’ll have to learn now.” They smile back at you and run a hand through their short locks before disappearing amongst the rest of the crew.</p><p>“Okay, we’re ready to rock n’ roll!” Alan exclaims, getting the band’s attention as he sits down in a chair next to your side of the couch. “We’re going to start off with a few basics on the band. Your lower thirds will have your instruments labeled but feel free to explain how you guys started out, your influences, your process. I’ll prompt you in between and then we’ll talk about the album and promote your upcoming tour towards the end. Should take 15 minutes tops, so keep your answers brief. But I won’t say no to any rowdy stories you want to throw in,” he finishes with a wink.</p><p>The band nods along as you gulp down a breath, your palms becoming even slicker. The stage manager’s high voice rings out around the studio. “Playback ready! Live to tape in 5.. 4…” Rich places a hand over your knee and gives a squeeze. “Light em’ up, Bun” he mutters in your ear.</p><p>“3.. 2..” She holds up a finger and then points it at Alan, a wide smile already set on his face. The camera light flicks red as the MTV open plays from speakers around the room. Alan beings as the song fades out.</p><p>“We’re here in the studio and boy, am I excited to get to know this next band. Over at MTV we’ve been watching the steady rise of their single “Heart of the Night” on the charts. And as an added surprise, they’re here to introduce their very first music video. I’m very pleased to welcome to the studio, Lo &amp; The Limbs!”</p><p>You try to relax your face as a camera pans across the band and settles on a two-shot of you and Alan. You know your eyes are already gleaming with anxiety so you glance down the couch, silently praying for one of the boys to take the lead.</p><p>“Thanks for having us Alan, it’s such a trip to be here,” Eddie says with ease, resting his forearms on his knees.</p><p>“So, I have to ask. Who is Lo? Is it you Lawerence?” Alan questions the piano player.</p><p>“Oh god, no,” Lawrence chuckles. “Our high school was affectionately called Lo High, for Long Island HighSchool of the Arts. So we sort of tacked that on while playing during those years to let people know where we were from. That and well, as you can see we’re all above 6 foot except for Y/N, so a lot of limbs going on here.”</p><p>Alan gives a short laugh. “You released your debut album, Quiet Lies, earlier this year to growing success. Why don’t you tell me how you all started out.”</p><p>“Well, the boys and I have been together for a few years. We’ve been friends since grade school and we always just used to jam about. As we got older we started playing local bars back on Long Island to mostly middle-aged crowds, trying to break in, but it wasn’t working. Then Rich had the idea to invite Y/N to join up and it’s all kind of all taken off from there,” Eddie explains.</p><p>“We needed a pretty face to balance out all these ugly mugs” Steve pipes up.</p><p>“It took a while for her to finally concede though. She was off being too studious for the likes of us.” Rich adds on with a smile and nudge to your side. Your eyes grow wide as you feel a question directed at you coming on.</p><p>“Is that true, Y/N?”</p><p>“I- I guess, I was at NYU studying documentary filmmaking.” You choke out but continue on. “Love this lighting set up, by the way, it really hides all sins.” That gets a light chuckle out of the crew surrounding you.</p><p>“And these sins you’re hiding are…” Alan grins but quickly bounces to the next topic. “Certainly a good call, Rich. Heart of the Night is the only song off the album that Y/N is singing lead on and look how well it’s doing. How did that happen?”</p><p>“Most of our songs were already written from before when we finally got the money to record. We wanted Y/N to feel a part of it, so she went on and wrote Heart of the Night and we were all very pleasantly surprised that it’s become such a hit,” Steve explains. “She also directed the music video we’ll be debuting today. I can’t believe she let us do all the things we did in that… well, you’ll just have to see for yourselves. We can be a bit of a handful.” The boys all chuckle.</p><p>“That and she plays the weirdest collection of instruments. Rhythm guitar, any type of strings, the saxophone… She’s a boss on the harmonica.” Eddie turns to you as he speaks. “You just need to get over those pesky little nerves about your singing, Bun!” He points in your direction.</p><p>You feel the heat rise behind your perfectly painted cheeks at the slip of your nickname. You cast your gaze down at your lap. Not liking how the conversation has turned directly onto you.</p><p>Alan quirks an eyebrow at you. “Bun?” he teases.</p><p>You have yet to lift your eyes when Rich answers for you. “Bunny, an affectionate nickname. It’s stuck around since grade school when she wandered into Lawrence’s backyard in search of a rabbit she was chasing.”</p><p>“A rockstar called Bunny. There’s a first for everything,” Alan quips but quickly notices your displeasure in the current topic. Sensing your growing panic, he addresses the rest of the group. “This has been quite the debut album, with more hits sure to come from it. Any bands you’ve taken inspiration from while writing and producing?”</p><p>Rich jumps at the question. “Fleetwood Mac would be a big one. The way they layer their sounds is just unmatchable. You catch something new with every listen of an album of theirs.”</p><p>“I can’t be a pianist from Long Island and not mention the granddaddy, Billy Joel,” Lawrence adds. “His songs take you on such a ride. They’re full stories, each one of them.”</p><p>“And you, Y/N?” Alan directs the next question. “Who will you be drawing inspiration from when you write your next hit single?”</p><p>You smile to yourself. “It’s gotta be Queen for me. I’ve loved every one of their albums. I mean, the way they’ve changed their sound just in the past few years alone. They’re always transcending. Never afraid to try out something new or weave a different genre into one of their songs. But you always know it’s a Queen song. I saw them 2 years ago when they played the Garden, and fu–” You catch yourself as you get more animated. “And they were all just so on. Perfectly in sync. There’s something so distinct about their sound, so practiced. I’d love to get to their level, to be able to experiment like that. To give joy in the way they’ve given it to me.” You finish. Realizing you’ve rambled for a bit, you turn your eyes downwards yet again.</p><p>“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you talk since you came into the studio!” Alan laughs. “Well, you heard it here first folks, Y/N L/N is a Queen fan, just like the rest of us. I’m sure you’re just as excited about their new album as well.” You nod quickly as Rich hides a smile. Knowing full well you’ll be first in line to purchase their new album, Hot Space when it drops.</p><p>“But before you get off to writing more hits, I believe you have a tour coming up!” Alan states, signaling that the interview is wrapping up.</p><p>“Yeah, we have a small American tour starting in February. But until then we’ll be opening up for Hall and Oates during their tour of the NorthEast next month,” Steve says excitedly, bouncing slightly in his seat.</p><p>“And with that, I think we’ll roll into the long-anticipated music video and directorial debut for the lovely Y/N L/N. Thank you all so much for coming in today and I can’t wait to see what’s next on the horizon for you. Here’s Lo &amp; The Limbs with Heart of the Night!” Alan keeps his painted smile till the red light vanishes from above the lens on the large pedestal camera in front of him.</p><p>You breathe out the breath you’d been choking on as Rich puts an arm around your shoulders. He leans in and whispers lightly, “And only one hint of a fuck, ladies and gentlemen. She might just make it in this business after all.”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>One Month Later - Veterans Memorial Coliseum - New Haven, Connecticut</p><p>The Limbs bound off the stage in full force, glistening with sweat and excitement. It was the largest crowd they’d played for by far. 10,000 people cheered from the audience as roadies and crew moved around them to set up for the main act, Hall and Oates. Rich spreads his long arms and huddles the rest of the group into a family hug, your skin sticking to one another, the smell of sweat filling your noses.</p><p>“I just want us to all remember this moment,” he speaks to the group, foreheads touching. “Even if nothing happens past this album. That was insane.”</p><p>“Absolutely bonkers, dude!” Steve says and he bounces up and down beside you. You all take a deep collective breath and squeeze.</p><p>“Alright, get off of me you fucks,” you laugh, untangling yourself from their vast expanse of limbs. “We all stink and I have to get out of all… this.” You gesture to the skin-tight bodysuit your best friend, Dawn, had insisted you wear. Eddie presses a light kiss to your temple as he lets you into the dressing room first to change out of their view.</p><p>You close the door and sigh, glancing at yourself in the mirrors that line one wall of the room. Your eyes are bright, your hair is two times the size of when you went out on stage an hour before, and your makeup looks like you’d been in a fight. Grinning to yourself, you start to unlatch the halter top of the bodysuit, excited for the air to cool your skin.</p><p>Just as you are about to shimmy out of the rest of the ensemble, the door bursts open.</p><p>“Shit! Lawrence, what the hell?!” Scrambling to cover your top half.</p><p>Lawrence trains his eyes to the ceiling as he speaks. “Bunny, you gotta… just cover up and get your ass out here. You just… You gotta see, c’mon.”</p><p>Flustered, you hurry to redress your sticky body. After making sure everything is properly covered, you step out into the hallway backstage, already glaring at the boys. They’re all tight-lipped, staring at one another. “Okay, someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” you say loudly. “Shhhhh” Rich hisses as he gestures behind him with a shake of his head. You glance over his shoulder to see the backs of two men. John Hall and Daryl Oates.</p><p>“Yeah, okay… I don’t get it. We’ve hung out with them like 5 times. Why are we fangirling?”</p><p>Rich widens his eyes at you and you glance back at them again. This time they part and you can catch a glimpse of who they’ve been talking to.</p><p>The flash of a tight leather jacket, a mustache, and two front teeth shining while laughter erupts from behind them.</p><p>You gasp.</p><p>“Fucking, fuck. That’s Freddie fucking Mercury.” You say, a bit too loud.</p><p>The bold man in question locks eyes with you. Something mischievous dances behind them as he narrows his gaze. Daryl and John move to their roadies to get fixed up before heading out on stage and Freddie lets out a sharp burst of laughter as he makes his way over. Your stomach churns with embarrassment but you can’t tear your eyes from his.</p><p>“Quite the redundancy of expletives, my dear. All you had to do was say hello,” he grins at you, all teeth. You’re not one to get too clammy in front of other musicians, but your voice gets trapped in your throat. You pray to whatever gods are out there that your eyes don’t get any wider.</p><p>Eddie’s easy charm luckily saves you. “This beautiful songstress right here is Y/N L/N.” You barely lift your arms as Freddie pulls you in for a light hug and kiss on the cheek. “But you can call her Bunny.” Eddie grins. So much for easy charm, you think as you stare daggers into the profile of his face.</p><p>“Ha! Bunny? Oh my, that is wonderful.” Freddie chuckles. “It sounds as if you’re a socialite… Or a stripper. I can’t tell.” He beams at you. You can’t help but beam right back.</p><p>“Come along. Let us watch the show and you can tell me which one it is,” he says with a wink. “And introduce me to these giants you call your band.” He grabs your arm and leads you off, the boys in tow. Bouncing with excitement for what’s to come.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>February 1982 - Orpheum Theater, Boston</p><p>It’s noisy in the cramped green room backstage at the Orpheum Theater in Boston. Gone were the days of grand arenas while tagging along with Hall and Oates. Now only around 2,000 bodies lined the seats out in the house, but you still feel that familiar bubble of nerves as Dawn busies herself around your hair. </p><p>Dawn, your best friend from your two short years at NYU, had agreed to tag along for the short tour to help with your “look.” Not that you ever really had a problem with your usual jeans and t-shirts, but this rock type of glam proved to be a different beast, and Dawn certainly had an eye for style. Her voluminous hair always streaked blonde and crimped to perfection. She’d tried to convince you many times to do something chemical with yours but you held firm to your virgin hair, causing your pre-show routine to run well into an hour and a half to get the desired popular style. You smile up at her as she curls part of your bangs away from your face, truly grateful to have another woman around.</p><p>“Babes, please stop moving your head. I’ve had to do the same piece 3 times already,” she tuts at you. “And Eds, I’ve asked you how many times to watch your elbows, jesus christ.”</p><p>Eddie tries to cram in even tighter against the wall, keeping to the five tiny spots you’d all wrangled against the mirror. “Ay, I’m trying over here. It takes some effort to get all this together,” he smirks, running his fingers through his already perfectly coiffed hair. A shame really, that it would be utterly destroyed within 15 minutes of being on stage.</p><p>“Have we picked a city song for tonight yet? I want to go over it in my head a few times before we go on,” Lawrence calls out, trying to tug on a pair of pants that look a size or two too small for him.</p><p>The Limbs had taken to playing one song per show by a famous local artist from the city they were in. Since they only had the one album out, it was a chance to get the audience singing and moving together; to change up the pace. A modified tip from a certain mustached rock legend that the band had started to implement.</p><p>“I thought we decided on More Than A Feeling?” Eddie says as he tears his eyes away from his own reflection.</p><p>“That’ll be what they expect. I think Bun sounds better on My Best Friend’s Girl,” Rich says simply. He’s attempting some form of stretching routine in the back corner of the room, his extremities bumping up against the walls.</p><p>“So Y/N’s taking this one?” Steve asks, lounging across a small loveseat against the wall, his legs dangling off of it delicately. He looks up from whatever song he’s been working on.</p><p>“You heard what the label said. They want Y/N more center stage, so to speak, for marketing reasons.” Rich tries folding his body into some sort of pretzel shape. A light “oof,” escapes his lips as he falls backward slightly.</p><p>“Ah yes, we need to give the public what they want,” you huff, wanting to roll your eyes if not for Dawn covering your head in a cloud of Aqua Net.</p><p>Eddie starts pacing, or at least tries to, “I just don’t get why they’re trying to make her into some Debbie Harry.” He scoffs, “Like that’s ever gonna happen.” </p><p>Dawn glares at him. It was a bit of a low blow, but Eddie was still getting used to sharing the spotlight with you, with him singing lead on almost every other song. </p><p>You were still struggling to find your presence on stage and were more than happy to take a back seat to the boys for the most part. And while some of the band’s other singles were gaining traction, none were close to catching up to Heart of the Night, which was now getting steady airplay and record sales thanks to the absurd music video that hit TV screens everywhere a few weeks back.</p><p>“That’s true, Y/N’s much more of a Linda Ronstadt type if we’re throwing out names,” Lawrence grunts out. Finally able to close the button on his skin-tight pants.</p><p>A cold laugh erupts from Eddie. “Exactly. It’s the Eighties now if you haven’t noticed. It’s all about edgy sex appeal, and let’s be honest, even Steve has a better chance of-”</p><p>“Enough!” Dawn’s voice sliced through the air, the daggers thrown from her eyes flying towards him. She leans down to your level to examine her masterpiece. “You look as sexy as a goddamn playboy bunny, hun. No pun intended.” Her voice softens as she pinches your cheeks.</p><p>The room goes mostly quiet for the next few minutes as the local opening band starts to close out their set with their last two songs. Only Rich’s deep breathing, fitting in time to the beat. </p><p>You chew your cherry painted lips, mulling over Eddie’s words. You knew full well that you weren’t exactly the frontwoman the label or the public dreamed of. Hell, you weren’t even supposed to be a frontwoman at all. When you’d finally given in to Rich’s insistent pestering to come have some fun with the boys, you’d been at NYU for two years. You loved your film classes but felt the hole that was left from the absence of playing any type of music. In high school, you’d all show up to a party with a variety of instruments in your grasps. It almost always resulted in a crowd gathering around to listen, joining in with your voices, clicking their beer bottles in time with the beat. It was when you had felt most carefree, and you had ached for that feeling again.</p><p>But playing locally turned into recording an album, for which you wrote a song for some dream of a man that only existed in your thoughts. Next thing you knew you were scooped up by Columbia Records, missing classes to attend photoshoots or album release parties. People were listening to your voice, your song, and wanting more. You dropped out of college to the dismay of your parents but were immediately enveloped in your friends’ glee, finally reaching the precipice of something they’d only dreamed of. You hated the thought of letting them down in any way but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a fluke, that you had nothing else to give. Destined to fade out as a one-hit-wonder and a disappointment to your best friends in the world. The weight hit your shoulders as you slumped in your seat. </p><p>None of this was supposed to happen, you tell yourself. It never happens like this.</p><p>You’re broken out of your daze when there’s a rap at the door and a muffled “5 minutes” from the stage manager behind it. You all stand, waiting for Rich to spread his wings and engulf you in your usual pre-show pow wow. You slide Dawn in next to you in the now group of 6, needing someone steady as an anchor.</p><p>“If you’d please, Reverend,” Steve probes, cheekily.</p><p>“We’re gathered here today” Rich begins and Dawn giggles. “To bring immense joy to those 2,000 idiots out there, who so willingly sold out our show for us. They deserve a performance played to 200,000, so that’s what we’re going to give them. In the name of our fathers, John, George, Paul, and Ringo. Let’s go give em’ hell.”</p><p>“Amen!” you all shout and disband.</p><p>As you follow the boys into the dingy hallway leading to the stage, Eddie catches your wrist. He looks at you through his long lashes with an uncharacteristically shy smile that almost never sees the light of day.</p><p>“I’m sorry for being a prick, Bun. I shouldn’t have said all that,” he mutters as you continue to walk, not wanting to miss your cue.</p><p>“No worries, Eds. You were right though. I’m definitely no Debbie,” you force a chuckle at yourself while a roadie slips your guitar strap onto your shoulders.</p><p>“It’s not alright. And no, you’re not,” he says catching your downturned eyes. “You’re Y/N fucking L/N, and you’re just gettin’ started, baby. All you gotta do is take a little bit of the love we all have for you and give some to yourself once in a while, alright?” A grin forms, showing his adorably asymmetrical teeth as he reaches out a hand to ruffle your painstakingly perfected hair. “That’s better. Now let’s get out there so you can show the world exactly what kind of frontwoman you are. And don’t be scared to show them a hint of Bunny while you’re at it.” You move your guitar out of the way to pull him in for a close hug. You hear Steve start banging his snare and pull Eddie on to the stage with you, feeling a bit lighter than you had been minutes ago.</p><p>You approach your mic and take a look out at the packed, hazy theater.</p><p>“Well hello, Bawston!’ Your accent rings out to the faceless figures before you. “Aren’t you all looking fuckin’ fabulous tonight!”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>March 1982 - Musicland Studios, Munich</p><p>“No, I didn’t say it’s bad, just that it sounds tinny,” Brian argues, crossing his spidery arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. </p><p>“And it’s as if you’ve shoehorned Bowie in there just to mumble in the background incoherently. A waste, really,” Roger tacks on from beside him.</p><p>John sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch in the studio. “Just because it’s not your precious red special or your own magic fingers at work, doesn’t mean it’s tinny,” he counters calmly. Trying his best to keep the annoyance from seeping into his voice, knowing that Brian already had anger stemming from John’s earlier composition for the album.</p><p>It was the first time this week that all four men were in the studio together. Finishing up Hot Space was proving to be a strain on all of them and the growing rift had caused the men to nearly finish their songs separately instead of in their usual group dynamic. John’s experimentation into different styles, such as funk and disco, had not been willingly received thus far.</p><p>“Well, I sound rather fabulous, if I do say so myself. I’m very proud of us, Deacy,” Freddie states, getting up from his own place on the couch and stretching.</p><p>“It’s not that, Fred. It just doesn’t sound like us,” Brian sighs, already sensing the escalation of a row coming along.</p><p>“Oh please. Not this again…” Freddie huffs.</p><p>“That’s because it’s not us. It’s me and Freddie.” John cuts in with a roll of his eyes, landing them on Mack, their producer, who just shrugs and trains his gaze back to the board. </p><p>“That’s for sure,” Roger murmurs out. Now it’s John’s turn to cross his arms as he levels their pointed gazes. He’d worked with Fred for days putting together “Cool Cat,” hoping that the additional vocals from David Bowie would be a selling point for the other two.</p><p>With a clap of his hands, Freddie moves about the room. “Why don’t we take a quick break and then give it another listen?” Roger groans. Freddie pats his shoulder as he makes his way over to a radio beside Mack.</p><p>John rubs his tired eyes before pushing himself off the couch, eager for a break from the energy in the stale room. “I’m grabbing a coffee,” not offering one to the others as he brushes past Brian on his way out, quickly retreating down the hallway as fast as his legs will carry him.</p><p>The remaining three startle a bit as Freddie flips on the radio, Lo &amp; The Limbs hit single pours from it, louder than expected.</p><p>“Oh! Oh, yes! Simply marvelous,” he exclaims, jumping up and down lightly. Roger and Brian raise their eyebrows in silent questioning. “This is the band of rascals I was telling you about the other week. They must’ve just broken out here.”</p><p>“The yanks you met while in the States?” Roger questions, turning his attention to the song, eager to judge any brimming competition.</p><p>“Yes, yes, the wild young lady who swears like the devil and her band of merry giant trees.”</p><p>“We have one of those!” Rog nods in Brian’s direction, voice muffled by a cigarette now dangling from his lips.</p><p>“Hm, Brain’s more of a willowy spruce, if you will. These ones are giant redwoods. You know American’s. And they have these thick New York accents. I could barely understand a word they were saying at first. What a riot they were.” he remembers fondly.</p><p>“I feel as if I’ve heard this before, but I can’t place it,” Brian ponders, almost to himself.</p><p>John appears in the doorway, blowing lightly on a steaming mug.</p><p>“Probably from that shocking video of theirs, darling,” Freddie waves his hands about. “Oh, you must’ve seen it. They’re all dressed up like they’re in Grease or something, and this square of a girl is pinning after the bad boy. But he’s with this slutty little thing. And oh, I can’t recall the details, but in the end, she ends up murdering the slut!” He slaps the table for effect. “But for some odd reason the boy is okay with it all and they run off into the night together, covered in blood.”</p><p>“Sounds… spooky?” Roger shrugs. John stifles a chuckle.</p><p>“It’s dramatic! And sexy. And obviously working for them.” The wheels already turning in his head.</p><p>John tunes out their chatter and trains his ears to said song, which is about halfway through. The instrumentals seem a bit basic for his taste. The soft strum of an acoustic guitar, a slightly heavier electric over it, with a simple bass line. A female voice flits in.</p><p>::Cool city moon lays its touch on the room::</p><p>::Your eyes reach to me::</p><p>It has a rasp to it. Akin to Stevie Nicks, he thinks.</p><p>::Two shadows fall saying nothing at all::</p><p>::We know what we need::</p><p>No, not quite. It’s entirely it’s own if he’s being honest. He can feel the soul pulsating through words and the power that’s beneath it. One that could probably fit with any genre it should choose. His interest peaked.</p><p>::In the release, two prisoners are free from the darkness::</p><p>::One more escape surviving the heartache and madness::</p><p>The raw emotion erupting from the speakers and the lyrics start to paint a picture in his mind, scrambling to fill in the faceless voice.</p><p>::In the heart of the night::</p><p>The chorus starts and picks up steam quickly. Male voices begin to fill in on background vocals, blending together seamlessly.</p><p>::We run like bandits::</p><p>::Two hungry hearts under the gun::</p><p>Her voice cracks a bit, in a charming way. It must be radiant when heard live.</p><p>::In the heart of the night::</p><p>::When we find each other::</p><p>::Were stealing love on the run::</p><p>::In the heart of the night::</p><p>::Heart of the night::</p><p>A small smile plays on John’s lips as the song fades out. They’re good, he muses to himself, a bit intrigued by the song and Fred’s colorful description of the accompanying video.</p><p>“A great voice indeed. They’ve got a strong sound going,” Brian chirps up.</p><p>“That’s her first swing at writing, too. Wish it had been that bloody easy for us.”</p><p>“Is she a looker, Fred?” Roger wags his brows.</p><p>“Oh please, they’re practically babies! Although that drummer of theirs is certainly something to write home about… Even with the head of hair he has. A bit like a mushroom. A cute one,” Freddie ponders, stroking his full mustache.</p><p>John reaches up and pats the tight curls atop his own head, wondering how it would look if he ceased from trimming his current short perm.</p><p>“I do hope they catch on here. What fun that would be.” John readily nods along without realizing it.</p><p>Freddie switches off the radio and turns back to the other three men. “Alright back to it then. Queue it up, Mac,” placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and raising his eyebrows. “Shall we?”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>March 1982 - Columbia Records, New York City</p><p>“Why are the undersides of my knees sweaty? I’m not a back of the knee sweat kind of guy, alright?” Lawrence fidgets, adjusting his collar for the fourth time in two minutes.</p><p>You casually gulp down your third glass of water while staring at the wood-paneled walls of the office. Attempting to avoid the gazes of a number of gold discs lining the walls, the echoes of your musical idols. They seem to be laughing at you.</p><p>Steve partakes in his trademark bouncing routine, the chair underneath him squeaking in a violent rhythm. “Do you think it’s the video? It has to be the video or we wouldn’t be in this office. I knew we shouldn’t have taken that big of a risk right out of the gate.”</p><p>“You gotta be kidding me. You basically doused yourself in the blood when Eddie pitched it!” Rich cuts in, his usual calm demeanor nowhere to be found.</p><p>“What! It was your idea for the–”</p><p>The door behind where the group is gathered swings open and in strides a stocky man with a full beard and tinted aviator sunglasses still covering his eyes.</p><p>“What are we all standing around for? Sit, sit, sit, c’mon,” his gruff Brooklyn accent ringing out as he moves to sit behind a large mahogany desk.</p><p>The Limbs scramble to fit on the couch across from him, with you ending up perched on the armrest, gripping Rich’s bicep for support.</p><p>The man, Walter Yetnikoff, CEO and Chairman of Columbia Records, grunts as he eases into a leather chair, finally removing his glasses, revealing surprisingly kind eyes, “Jeez louise, look at you kids. You look as if a nun just caught you all playing with each other’s junk. What’s with the faces?”</p><p>“Mr. Yetnikoff, we’d like to sincerely apologize for the backlash that has come from our video. We should’ve known better than that. We could’ve toned it down… a lot,” Eddie rushes out. He wipes his hand over his too-snug tailored pants, probably leftover from days of youth choir.</p><p>Walter barks out a laugh. “I’ll admit I was a little shocked to find out that’s what you needed a high school gym for, but relax a little, will ya? You’re not here to be scolded. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have fought so hard to get it airtime.”</p><p>The Limbs visibly relax- a tad, but their eyes all stay wide.</p><p>“Well aren’t ya gonna ask why you’re all here then?”</p><p>“W-why are we here?” Rich asks quietly. “Sir.” He adds.</p><p>“It seems that the slight PR crisis of a video you made has made its way across the pond,” Walter smirks.</p><p>“You mean…” Steve trails off in a voice two octaves higher than usual.</p><p>“You kids better like air travel because there’s gonna be a lot of it in your near future. The hit has broken into the London airwaves and they’re not as god-fearing as viewers here seem to be. We’re sending you over there next week now that you’ve wrapped up the tour.”</p><p>“Holy shit!” Lawrence yells. You feel yourself falling back off your perch as your large friends all jump to their feet. Rich’s gangly arm luckily catches you and pulls you immediately into a suffocating hug. “You did this, Bunny!” he screams in your ear. “You did this!”</p><p>“Alright, alright, you can all go celebrate and drink your faces off in a second,” Walter calls out over the group who immediately shut their mouths. “We have a few details to iron out but I’m hoping to send you over there for a full press tour. Photoshoots, interviews, talk show appearances. The works, you got it.”</p><p>Steve lets out a squeal of delight, his voice not yet returning to its usual bass.</p><p>“You.” He points a stubby finger in your direction. “I’m waiting to hear back about a last-minute cancelation on some game show out there. We’re gonna try to get you in. You know your shit?”</p><p>“W-what kind of shit, sir?” You ask from the bear hug that Rich still holds you in.</p><p>He holds up his hands, gesturing to the gold discs that surround him. “Music, my dear.”</p><p>All you can do is nod, not wanting to think about what that even entails.</p><p>“That’s what I like to see. Now get outta here so you can all combust somewhere outside of my office. We’ll call you in a few days. Get those bags ready, you hear me?” He waves you all off.</p><p>Before you have a chance to say anything, the boys are sweeping you out of the room. And off to the start of whatever comes next, you guess.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A wild Deacy appears! Reader was supposed to meet him in this chapter but it got a bit long. I may have awkwardly stuffed in some backstory as well, but I wanted to get through it before we start having more interactions with the members of Queen. I’m a hoe for Hot Space and Cool Cat is such a vibe so I had to throw it in here. If you haven’t heard the original demo with Bowie you should take a listen. The music video concept was sparked loosely by Mitski’s “happy” video (it’s gory af, be forewarned). I’m aware that the MTV of the 80s definitely would’ve banned anything like that, but it’ll come back around in the plot later on.</p><p>Songs Mentioned:<br/>Heart Of The Night - Juice Newton<br/>More Than A Feeling - Boston<br/>My Best Friend’s Girl - The Cars</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>April 1982 - BBC Studios, London</p><p>“It’s not funny, Y/N! Stop laughing. You’re gonna ruin all my hard work!” Dawn chastises you as she sweeps a pale blue eye shadow across your lids, trying her best to complete your request to tone down your usual stage look.</p><p>You try to muffle your laughter, teetering on your chair set up in the spacious green room. It comes out as a wheeze, a soft whistle escaping through your nose. “I’m sorry, you said what!?”</p><p>“I kid you not, I took one look at his penis and said ‘What the fuck is that?”</p><p>A sharp laugh escapes from your mouth once again, failing miserably to prevent tears from leaking out of the corners of your eyes.</p><p>“I feel awful! It’s just that I had never seen one before,” Dawn whines.</p><p>“Okay, I know for a fact that’s not the first dick you’ve seen. Hell, even I’ve seen some of those. Like ships passing in the night as they raced out of your dorm bed,” you giggle.</p><p>“You know what I mean. I’ve never been with one that’s… intact.”</p><p>Your eyebrows shoot up, “Oh c’mon. Uncircumcised can’t be that different.”</p><p>“It wasn’t! I was just drunk and got spooked, I guess. It was actually kinda cute. Like it was wearing a little turtleneck or something.”</p><p>You lose it, yet again. Laughter falls freely from your lips, helping to alleviate the dreaded stress that has now become your constant companion these days. Appearing on a game show alone was not something you thought you’d have to tackle on your third day in London. You’re sure the boys were off exploring the sprawling city that none of you had stepped foot in prior to the trip.</p><p>Pop Quiz was apparently a big hit for the BBC, featuring a bevy of famous musicians battling out their knowledge of the industry. You’d never had the chance to watch, obviously not readily available to viewers back home, but a harried man had come in earlier to give you a basic rundown of the format. You were somewhat confident in your knowledge of music, having been a regular at your hometown’s local record shop, you just hoped it would be enough to keep you from making a fool out of yourself in front of an entire country. But your anxiety mostly stemmed from your upcoming appearance in front of the camera without the boys there to play off of.</p><p>“How was it, though? I heard they’re supposed to “feel better” or something like that,” your curiosity getting the better of you. “Ooo, was it curved? Sometimes that can be a great thing. Except for one I encountered that was going in the opposite way then you’d think. Like even it knew it should be running away from the dude.”</p><p>Dawn’s face screws into a pinch, “Was that Tyler... Wait, don’t tell me. Ew. And I wouldn’t know! The poor guy was so embarrassed he couldn’t even keep it up after that!”</p><p>“What a waste,” you sigh. “I thought I’d be at least getting some field research out of your antics. What did I even bring you to London for?” you joke as she holds a tissue out to blot your lips.</p><p>“Uh-huh. The day you do some “field research” of your own is the day I chop off my own hair,” she quips, narrowing her eyes at you.</p><p>You casually raise your right hand to flip her off. She wasn’t wrong; it had been a while since you’d been with anyone, let alone entertained the fact of jumping into a relationship. There were partners in the past, of course. A few geeky high school boys, a woman who worked at said hometown record store, and the occasional pretentious film kid while at NYU, who spoke condescendingly of women working in film but scratched an itch when needed.</p><p>“And there’s no time like the present! You know what they say. When in Britain…” Dawn trails off, failing to finish her bit.</p><p>You left eyebrow quirks, “Throw dental hygiene standards out the window?”</p><p>Her face twists in disgust again as she uncaps a can of Aqua Net. “Gross. Now close your eyes and shut up so I can be done with you.”</p><p>The spray sputters, emitting little from it. “Dammnit,” she curses, turning to rummage around her sprawling kit. “Of course, I didn’t pack a spare. I’ll be right back. Hopefully, their hair department has one we can borrow.” </p><p>She rushes from the room in a sweeping motion, knocking over a coffee that was precariously placed on your chair’s armrest in the process.</p><p>“Fuck me,” you breathe, jumping up, your white blouse now doused in caffeine.</p><p>You hurry to jog out of the room, trying to catch up with her. “Daw- Shit!”</p><p>Your face collides with a hard chest.</p><p>Two large hands grip your shoulders to stop your momentum. “Oh! Apologies,” comes a light voice from above, muffled by your full head of ringlets. You jerk your head away quickly, and your gaze lands on a pair of startled greyish, green eyes.</p><p>“S-sorry,” you stutter out. “Completely my fault.” You glance down to the hands that still rest on your shoulders for a moment before looking back up. The pair of eyes go wide, and the hands quickly retreat back to the man’s side. </p><p>The man being the bassist of Queen, John Deacon. You scold yourself for only having glanced at the day’s detailed itinerary this morning before heading out. How did I miss that one? Sweat begins to gather on your palms immediately.</p><p>“John Deacon,” he hesitantly smiles at you while extending a hand.</p><p>“Y/N L/N,” you squeak out as his hand engulfs yours, inwardly cringing at how moist it must feel. You hold it for a bit too long. “I’m one of the contestants on Team A today,” you yank your hand back to your side.</p><p>His brow knit together. “Oh? I was told I’d be with Nick Rhodes and Jon Moss today.”</p><p>You shift your weight uncomfortably from side to side, having yet to meet his eyes again. “Nick had to cancel, I believe. I’m a last-minute replacement.”</p><p>“Okay,” he replies with a tight smile. “Well, good then. I hope you’re ready,” he glances down, noticing the stain splashed across your top. “Or, at least close to it...”</p><p>“Huh?” you blurt out before realizing, looking down at your shirt. “Oh, yes. The reason I so rudely ran into you. I should go-” your eye catches something as they finally travel back up to his. “Aw, fuck.”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>You grimace, pointing directly at his chest. Right to the giant imprint on his tight blue shirt. One that had been left by your bright red lipstick.</p><p>He follows your finger. “Ah! Will you look at that.”</p><p>“I am so, so sorry,” you rush out, absolute mortification seeping into your voice.</p><p>He dismisses your apology with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. That’s what jackets are for,” he says, zipping up the oversized grey jacket slung around his shoulders. “And at least now I know this shade of red really isn’t my colour.”</p><p>You smile up at him, not really knowing what else to say—the full weight of your not-so-smooth first encounter with this man hitting you fast, as people squeezed around you two in the tight hallway. “I should go get fixed up,” you tell him, pointing your thumb back over your shoulder towards your dressing room, ready to make a quick exit.</p><p>“Alright. I’ll see you out there then. Cheers!” he smiles back with a wave of his hand, turning to find his own space to get ready.</p><p>You stand there watching him in a daze, mentally berating yourself for now having had two inappropriate run-ins with a member of Queen.</p><p>Dawn materializes into your field of vision, hands-on-hips.</p><p>“Honestly, what the hell. I left you alone for two minutes!”</p><p>- - - - - - -<br/>20 minutes later, you follow a stagehand through the back of the soundstage, fidgeting with your outfit while trying not to crash into anyone else. Dawn’s top that she quickly switched with your own was cut much lower than you would’ve liked and left you feeling even more exposed than your current bout of nerves did.</p><p>You’re dumped onto the set with the point of a finger over to a tall man. Mike Read, the host of Pop Quiz, stands by a large desk, crew members bustling around him. You stick to your spot out of the way, not sure if to interrupt the conversation he’s currently having to introduce yourself. </p><p>You take in the spacious stage, never having been on a show of this size before. A wave of longing suddenly washes over you, yearning for days on set where you were a part of the crew that moved around you. While at school, you’d worked on several student films, usually as a 1st Assistant Director or Line Producer. You loved the pace of production. Keeping everyone on time, on budget. It was where you felt most confident. While there were a variety of different types of personalities on set, you found it exhilarating to be the one to settle disputes and help everyone stay on track. Your subtle superpower of putting out little fires everywhere you went. Never had it crossed your mind that you’d be on the other side of the camera one day.</p><p>“A change of wardrobe, I see,” a voice says from behind you, pulling you out of your daydream. You turn to catch John’s smirk, his eyes trained intentionally on your own.</p><p>“It would appear so,” you reply, glancing down at yourself quickly.</p><p>“Have you been introduced to Mike yet?”</p><p>“Nope. I was working up the courage,” you admit.</p><p>“C’mon,” he gestures for you to follow him as he strolls towards the man. “He doesn’t bite.” You follow, trailing behind his long strides as he daintily weaves between the many bodies in your path.</p><p>“John!” Mike exclaims as you both approach. “Good to see you, mate,” he claps him on the back.</p><p>“You too. Thanks for having me back,” John greets him cheerily. “And look, I brought a present. All the way from America, I’m assuming. Mike, this is--”</p><p>“Y/N L/N!” Mike says, a genuine smile forming. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that we fit you in.”</p><p>“Oh, thank you. I’m excited to be here,” you mumble as he brings you in for a hug.</p><p>“Can I just say, your video for Heart of the Night is absolutely outrageous. I thought my eyes were going to pop out my head when I’d learnt that MTV in the States had aired it,” he laughs. “Daring stuff, really.”</p><p>You feel a heat creeping up your neck as you try to accept the compliment. “Yeah, thanks. Glad to hear that you’re all a bit more relaxed in terms of watching the explicit murder of a teenage girl on your screens.” You immediately wince at your own bluntness.</p><p>You can’t help but peek over at John, curious if he’d seen the violent clip now making its rounds across UK television sets everywhere. He’s staring at you with eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open slightly. </p><p>Great. He thinks I’m a lunatic.</p><p>“We certainly are!” Mike chuckles. “Have you been briefed on the logistics of how the taping will go?”</p><p>“Mhmm, I got the rundown from one of your producers.”</p><p>“Excellent. Well, you’ll be in good hands with John here heading your team,” he says, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulders.</p><p>Good hands indeed, you think to yourself, remembering how large they felt when they gripped your shoulders earlier. No, stop that, you scold yourself.</p><p>“We’ll be getting started in just a few minutes if you’d both like to find your seats. And you’ll have to regale me with the gory details from that shoot of yours afterward,” he winks, gesturing towards your spots for the show. You turn to follow John to your side of the set.</p><p>“Oh, and Y/N!” Mike calls out. “I do hope you’re good. Deacon got absolutely spanked last time he was on.” You bring your hand up to your face to stifle your giggle. John makes a show of rolling his eyes but keeps walking. You notice his face is now tinged a lovely shade of pink.</p><p>“You must think I’m daft,” he says, turning to you slightly.</p><p>“Me? Oh no, I’m sure we’ll do great!” you reply, a bit too happily.</p><p>“No, no, not that,” he laughs lightly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “For not recognizing you during our... colourful meeting in the hallway. It seems you and your band left quite the impression on our dear Freddie.”</p><p>“Oh! That’s nice to hear. You can tell him he left quite the impression on us as well, but I’m sure he makes an impression on most everyone,” you shrug. “And don’t worry about it, please. It’s not as if I’m a part of the biggest band in Britain or anything,” you tease. He smiles shyly. You catch the crinkles on the outer corners of his eyes before he turns them downwards.</p><p>You reach the long table on your designated side of the studio. There’s one on the other side mirroring it, with three somewhat familiar faces already sitting behind it. You glance at the empty seats before you, moving hesitantly towards them until John pulls out the closest chair, gesturing for you to sit. He gingerly pushes it under you as you lower yourself down.</p><p>“Thanks,” you mumble. He nods and moves to sit beside you.</p><p>There’s a loud bang to your right, causing you both to jump and look to the source; a large Grip gingerly picks up the c-stand he’s knocked over. John hovers above his chair, watching on as a producer shouts at the poor man, his waist now at your eye line.</p><p>You had never understood the fascination with men’s butts. That is, until now. The tight jeans John had on left little to the imagination. As if that would stop you. You shake your head back and forth as if to clear your thoughts. All of Dawn’s talk earlier must have you seriously whacked out.</p><p>“Are you alright?” John asks, now situated in his seat.</p><p>“Hm?” you break out of your daze. “Yes, fine. It’s just- I haven’t done anything like this,” you gesture to the large room teeming with various crew and a studio audience, “before, on my own. Usually we’re all together, and I’m slightly less charismatic than the rest of them, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Well, I would tell you that it’ll get easier, but I still feel like I’m rubbish without my lot as well,” he sympathies. “And I happen to find you quite charismatic as you are,” he adds softly. “You certainly had Mike going back there.”</p><p>“Oh boy,” a voice huffs from the other end of the table, drawing away John’s attention. You’re thankful for the distraction, finding yourself at a loss for words due to his comment, coupled with your previous thoughts.</p><p>“I see you two actually arrived on time, ya goodie-two-shoes,” the flamboyant man complains as he plops into the third and final seat at the table.</p><p>“Jon, welcome. Good to see you,” John acknowledges, shaking the man’s hand.</p><p>“And who’s this little thing at the end, then?” he points at you.</p><p>John’s expression turns slightly sour at the informal greeting directed towards you. “This is Y/N L/N of Lo &amp; The…” he struggles to remember, “Legs?”</p><p>You bark out a laugh. “The Limbs. But The Legs sounds better actually.” You share a smile, holding onto John’s eyes even though it makes your insides flip.</p><p>An outstretched hand is shoved past his body. “Jon Norris. Drummer. Culture Club.” You accidentally brush John’s arm as you move to return the handshake, not missing how he jumps a bit at the contact. “Pleasure,” reply, tearing your eyes away.</p><p>The drummer retracts his hand, settling back to swing his shoes up onto the table. “I’m glad to have a bird on the team, actually. Maybe we’ll get a few extra points thrown our way for that tiny top of yours,” he smirks, not even glancing over in your direction.</p><p>You look down at your slightly exposed chest, but the color red quickly clouds your vision. John sucks in a breath as he sits up straight in his chair. “That’s a bit ru-,” he starts in an annoyed tone.</p><p>But you’re quick to cut in, leaning your body forward on the table to lock eyes with Jon, “Actually, we might get docked a few for that obnoxious suit you’ve got on. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that stripes bleed on camera, sweetheart?” you seeth.</p><p>He glances down at his bright pink and green striped suit, clearly taken aback by your quick comeback. “N-no…” he falters, shutting up for the moment.</p><p>You catch John’s expression, a mixture of confusion and awe while he gapes at you. You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. Luckily you don’t have much time to stew over the misogynistic comment as the stage manager’s voice rings out a 10-minute warning.</p><p>“Just try not to show me up too much, would you?” John whispers, leaning in closer to you. Obviously, trying to lighten your mood.</p><p>You give in. “You, sir, are lucky to have me on your team,” you point at him. “Tell me, what’s more important? The scoreboard or your fragile ego?” You’re not sure where your sudden wave of confidence is coming from.</p><p>He brings his hand to his chest. “You caught me,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “One could say I’m overcompensating, given who my bandmates are. Roger’s won this twice already, and it only started airing last year. I’ll never hear the end of it if I muck it up again.”</p><p>“Well then, I’ll do my best to save your sorry ass, and maybe that one down there too, if he’s lucky,” you tease. </p><p>Great. Now I’m thinking about his ass again. Fuck you, Dawn.<br/>“If you’d be so kind,” he says before turning his attention elsewhere, content to watch the happenings around him until the show’s start. You hear him start to softly hum to himself, not able to place what the tune is.</p><p>You try not to watch him out of your peripherals for the next few minutes, hardly even noticing your lack of nerves as the studio audience starts cheering.</p><p>- - - - - - -<br/>“And to end out round one, we have Adam Ant’s team with 3 points. And with a slight lead, John Deacon’s team with 4.” The studio audience erupts in a deafening cheer. “That’ll bring us into round two, which will be a team question. John, your team to go first,” Mike directs from his desk in the center of the set.</p><p>John lightly taps his pencil against the notepad in front of him, the current tight score starting to bring about his competitive side. He peeks over to check on his teammates. Y/N looks like a radiating ball of energy. Her feet are tucked up under her on the chair as she hunches forward, pencil already hovering while her teeth chew on the eraser. To his right, Jon doodles away, drawing exaggerated characachers of select members of the studio audience.</p><p>“Right, question coming to you in a moment, but first here’s the band, The Band.”</p><p>A large monitor towards the front of the set comes to life with a clip from their concert film, The Last Waltz. The chair to his left gives a loud squeak as Y/N begins to scribble furiously as if already knowing the question before it’s been given.</p><p>“Here’s a clip from The Last Waltz, The Band’s famous taped last concert. Please name 10 of the 20 rock legends that joined them on stage that night.”</p><p>John’s face scrunches in concentration, trying to recall the recording of it that he’d listened to many times before. He writes down the first few that come to mind, struggling to get past 6 names that he’s sure were present.</p><p>“Bloody American bands and they’re American friends,” Jon says, shoving his own piece of paper into John’s view. It has 4 names on it, 3 of which John already has down.</p><p>“They’re Canadian,” John replies, transferring the extra name of his paper.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The Band. They’re from Canada, I believe. At least most of them are.” Jon shrugs as the clip fades out, their minute of deliberation up.</p><p>“Alright, that was The Band with a famous clip from The Last Waltz. If you’d please, John, name 10 of the acts that accompanied them that night.”</p><p>A sheet of paper smoothly glides in front of his, Y/N’s messy scrawl covering it with 10 names hastily jotted down. He raises his eyebrows to her, but she just nods at the paper, urging him to read it.</p><p>He starts, completely disregarding his own list. “Erm, yes, we have Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Van Morrison, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Young, Bobby Charles” he struggles to read the small scribbling, almost illegible. “Um, Muddy Waters? Yes. And Neil Diamond.”</p><p>John lets out a breath, silently praying that the young girl beside him is as bright as she seems.</p><p>“Right you are! 10/10,” Mike exclaims. “For a bonus point, can you name the two artists that recorded pre-taped performances with them for the film as well?”</p><p>“Uh…” John glances at Y/N for support. She shoves another scrap of paper to him. Emmylou and Staples the only thing written on it.</p><p>“Emmylou Harris and The Staples Singers?” he answers, more like a question.</p><p>“Wonderful, a full 4 points to you all.”</p><p>He watches as a deep grin breaks onto Y/N’s face as she finally reclines. She looks over to him, a bit proud of herself, he thinks, as the other team begins their own round of questioning.</p><p>He’s quite intimidated by the American next to him if he’s being honest with himself. Her anxious demeanor seemed to have vanished into thin air once the game started, tackling each question thrown at their team with a hungry reverence. But her laugh is what keeps him on edge the most. It’s brash and full, consistently breaking him from his determined concentration to send a confusing jolt through his body each time.</p><p>“While your knowledge reigns superior, your handwriting leaves something to be desired,” he whispers in jest, not being able to help himself. She simulates a shocked expression as she leans over to look at her own paper that sits in front of him.</p><p>Her accent is thicker as she returns his whisper, “What ya tawking about?” She moves her eyes closer to examine, her shoulder bumping his. “That clearly says Muddy Waters.” Her hair hovers below his chin, almost tickling his stubble. It smells of something citrusy and light. </p><p>“Y’ smell lovely,” he sighs, almost inaudibly.</p><p>“Hm?” she questions, bringing her body back into her own seat.</p><p>“E-ever-ly,” He stumbles out, still quietly. “I thought it read it as the Everly Brothers at first,” hoping to god his bad save is enough.</p><p>She snorts. “You sure you didn’t leave your glasses at home? Would’ve thought you’d bring them to something like this.”</p><p>He quickly fixes the flustered look on his face, “Hm, glasses aren’t conducive to my rockstar type of lifestyle. Take Rog, for instance. Always wearing those bloody prescription sunglasses indoors, looking like an absolute git.”</p><p>She lets out that sharp laugh again, immediately covering her mouth, embarrassed at the thought of interrupting the other team. “I’ll have to watch out for that. Eat my carrots, all that nonsense,” she answers softly. If Brian were here, he’d ramble on about how there’s no scientific evidence of that or some bollocks, he thinks to himself.</p><p>“Let us hope my ears are in far better condition. Then you won’t have to keep, how did you put it, saving our sorry asses?” She smiles down into her lap and bites her lip. Oh hell, don’t do that.<br/>Mike is now wrapping up with the other team. “No, I’m sorry. Their other top 10 hit was “So You Win Again. 3 points it is.” He once again turns his attention back over to John’s team. “Moving on to our third round, we have individual questions. Y/N, we’ll start with you. Here’s the hit Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye. Please name the artists you hear in order.”</p><p>The sound bites begin, and Y/N is once again bent over her paper as she listens, brow furrowing. John identifies the first two singers instantly but is at a loss for the third, making him grateful the question isn’t his. The clips fade out.</p><p>“Y/N?”</p><p>“I think it was Glen Campbell.”</p><p>“Correct.”</p><p>“Johnny Nash.”</p><p>“Good. Last one?”</p><p>“And... Bettye Swann?”</p><p>“Yes, top job! Known for her R&amp;B hit Make Me Yours. I’ll give you a bonus if you can tell me who the song was sung by originally,” Mike counters.</p><p>“The Casino’s,” she says confidently.</p><p>“No, I’m sorry. I’ll give you one more chance.”</p><p>John realizes she was probably too young or not even born yet when the original was released. He slyly slides closer to her. “Don Cherry,” he mumbles lowly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.</p><p>“Don Cherry?” she shouts as if to cover up his assistance.</p><p>“Yes, John Deacon, you’re right. It is Don Cherry. The point is yours for at least attempting to be subtle,” Mike laughs. Y/N shyly smiles over at him, silently thanking him for his help. </p><p>John and Jon mostly breeze through their questions with ease, racking up a hefty amount of points in favor of their team before turning over to the others. He takes a sip of water as he smugly watches on.</p><p>“Glad to know my own ass is in good hands if it’s ever in need of saving again,” Y/N quietly comments. He chokes lightly on his water as an image flashes quickly through his mind. John racks his brain for a reply, but only overtly cheeky responses come to mind.</p><p>“Anytime,” he manages, afraid to catch her eyes. She lets out a light giggle, starkly different from her usual roar. It sends a warmth of color to his cheeks. </p><p>Intriguing, he thinks, silently hoping that he’ll get the chance to hear it again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>July 1982 - Freeport, Long Island</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” you sigh to no one in particular, pushing yourself off of the faded paisley couch in the basement of Steve’s parent’s house and making your way upstairs for a glass of water. The dull pounding in your head had only gotten worse from repeatedly staring at the green shag carpeting leftover from the prior decade. Navigating the layout of the familiar house with ease, you make your way to the kitchen.</p><p>“Oh, Bunny! Wonderful, I was just about to bring down some iced tea,” calls out Steve’s mother upon seeing you.</p><p>“Thanks, Mrs. Castellano. You didn’t have to do that.”</p><p>“Well, you know me. It was too quiet when you were all away.” The Limbs had recently gotten back from a small European tour--the album having spread beyond England; to Scotland, France, Germany, and Belgium. “I can’t help myself when I get all of you back under my roof. Speaking of… how’s it going down there?” she presses.</p><p>You keep your deadpan expression glued to your face as you lock eyes with the kind woman.</p><p>She grimaces, “I had a feeling. You better bring this back yourself then,” she hands you the pitcher.</p><p>“Will do. Thanks again, Mrs. C,” you tell her as you start to trudge your body back towards the basement. You let out a deep sigh before yanking the door open and descending into the pit of your own personal hell.</p><p>Lawrence’s voice booms from below, “I said simple! A simple four to the floor, and that’s it.”</p><p>The rest of The Limbs were right as you left them. Eddie and Rich lounge on the couch that is pushed up against the wood-paneled walls, their guitars strewn casually over their legs as they watch the ongoing argument. Lawrence paces around the room, his hands seemingly glued to his head as he pulls on his hair, and Steve sits behind his drum kit that’s tucked away in the corner. Padded blankets hang from the ceiling around him - a sorry excuse for soundproofing.</p><p>“Oh c’mon, I’m just adding some flavor to it! I’ll be as boring, sorry simple, as you want when we actually record it,” Steven replies, twirling a drumstick in his right hand.</p><p>Rich lets out a sigh as he clocks you making your way back. “Bun, any help here?”</p><p>You softly place the pitcher on a table off to the side before turning to the group, leaning back on your hands. “I just don’t get why we need to debut something new if it’s obviously not ready,” you say carefully.</p><p>“Of course you’d say that,” Lawrence grumbled, gesturing in your general direction. “Do you not want to sing it? Because you all told me you thought it was good!”</p><p>“It’s not that, and you know it, it’s just-”</p><p>“It just needs some work before Sunday, so let’s run the rhythm section again,” Eddie cuts in impatiently from his perch on the back of the couch. He untangles his spidery limbs and makes his way over to where you’re camped out.</p><p>“Okay, I’ll explain it again,” Lawrence huffs.</p><p>“We don’t need this stress two days before we play,” you tell Eddie softly.</p><p>“It’s a hometown show, Y/N,” he looks at you pointedly. “These folks helped get us to where we are. It’ll be nice to give them something new.”</p><p>The label had secured The Limbs a night at the Jones Beach Theater, the largest outdoor venue on the island. People from all over traveled to watch such acts as Jimmy Buffet, James Taylor, and Aerosmith, the height of entertainment for the suburban droves. And now they’ll be camping out for the first hometown Limbs show since they’d been signed. It was a huge deal, and you knew it, but you didn’t need something unfamiliar to throw off your already wavering shadow of a presence on stage.</p><p>Rich begins to pluck out the new bass line, carefully watching Lawrence’s reaction as he plays. On the pick-up, Steve again adds a light flourish as he joins in.</p><p>“Steve! For god’s sake! What did I just say?!”</p><p>“Live a little, will ya, Lawrence!” Steven shouts back.</p><p>The door to the basement wrenches open, and you all freeze. Mr. Castellano’s footsteps are heavy as he stomps down the stairs, somehow staring all of you down at once.</p><p>“Kids. If you’d be so kind as to keep it down a tad. I already have to watch the Yankees hand their asses over to the Blue Jays up there. I would at least like to hear it.”</p><p>“Sorry, Dad,” Steve mumbles.</p><p>“Thank you.” He starts to make his way back up the stairs but halts, turning to you once again. “Oh, also, someone from your label called before,” he adds on casually.</p><p>Steven jumps up from his stool, “What?! Dad!”</p><p>“What?! Steven!” he mimics. “I’m not your secretary.”</p><p>“Can you just tell us what they said?” Steve scoffs at his father.</p><p>“Something about being invited to a show at The Garden tonight. Some band. It’s… Dang it. I wrote it down somewhere,” he mutters, making his way back up the stairs.</p><p>“I wonder who it is,” Rich thinks aloud, glancing around to all of you.</p><p>Eddie notices as your body immediately stiffens beside him.</p><p>“Bun?” he asks slowly. “Do you know who’s playing Madison Square Garden tonight?”</p><p>Your eyes find the green carpet once again. Of course you knew who was playing tonight. Queen was beginning their two-night stay at the venue. Dawn wanted to get tickets, but you had argued that it was getting harder for you to go unrecognized in public. That, and the fact you had come to the realization you could only act like a complete fool around any of the band members. You weren’t keen on adding another entry to the list.</p><p>“It’s Queen!” Mr. Castellano calls from upstairs. “Starts at 8. You kids should get going if you’re gonna make it.”</p><p>“Queen’s playing?” Lawrence marvels. “How did we miss that?”</p><p>Rich rises, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe all the incessant practicing you’ve been holding us hostage for?” </p><p>“She knew,” Eddie smirks, pointing at you with his thumb. You stick your tongue out at him.</p><p>“Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve never gotten the chance to see them live before!” Steve questions, already rocking back on his heels with excitement. He had become quite the Queen fan since your run-in with Freddie after sticking to him like glue that entire night.</p><p>You shrug, trying to act nonchalant, “I thought we had more important things to focus on.”</p><p>“No, that’s not it,” Eddie deduces, narrowing his eyes at you. “You’re just embarrassed that you went all jellied around Mr. Mercury the last time.”</p><p>“You’re the one who had to go and tell him all about me fawning over them on MTV!”</p><p>“Ooor, maybe it’s because the entirety of the UK saw you making eyes at their bassist on that game show,” Lawrence elaborates.</p><p>“There were no eyes being made at anyone,” you grit out defensively, knowing full well that their words were ringing true.</p><p>“I, for one, am happy you have a crush, Bun. You know it’s been a while since…” Rich trails off, leaving out the name of a dreaded ex none of you speak of.</p><p>You push yourself off your perch on the table with a huff. “You know what? We’ll go. Let’s go. That way, I can disprove all your wildly inaccurate assumptions,” you retort, wanting to get the heat off you fast.</p><p>Steven chuckles, “Oh no, she’s broken out her dictionary, folks. Looks like we’ve hit a nerve.” He pokes your side playfully.</p><p>“Shut up, please,” you tell them, making your way over to the stairs. “We have a train to catch.”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>You’re late.</p><p>The muffled bass from the arena hits your ears as the Limbs dash up the steps leading from Penn Station to MSG. You all but sprint to catch up with the boy’s long gaits as they approach the box office window.</p><p>“Hiya, there’s supposed to be some tickets at will-call for us from the band,” Eddie explains to a woman behind the glass as he tries to catch his breath.</p><p>“Name?” </p><p>“Uh… Lo &amp; The Limbs?”</p><p>“Don’t have anything under that name. Could it be something else?”</p><p>“Can you try just The Limbs?” he guesses, turning back to the group with wide, panicked eyes.</p><p>“Nope, sorry,” she answers in a monotone.</p><p>“How about The Legs,” you offer up from your spot behind Rich’s tall figure. She just shakes her head.</p><p>“Well, fuck,” Lawrence sighs, slapping his palms against his legs, obviously ticked off from the 45-minute train ride you’d all barely caught because Steve had changed his shirt a minimum of three times before you could all head out.</p><p>“What about Bunny?” Steve asks with a giggle.</p><p>The woman raises her eyebrows before checking the list yet again.</p><p>“Ah, there you are. Bunny and friends,” she concludes with a sigh.</p><p>A chorus of chuckles erupts from the boys. You point your finger at Eddie.</p><p>“I’m coming for ya. Eds. You’re not gonna know where or when, but I’ll get you back for this one day,” you tell him playfully. </p><p>“Oh yeah, and when you kill me, you can be free to go off and start your solo group, Bunny and Friends.”</p><p>She hands you all large laminate passes and gestures for you to follow a security guard. They deposit you in one of the skyboxes on the 10th floor. The Limbs tentatively enter, glancing around at the mishmash of people gathered. Extra crew, friends of the band, some execs, you guess to yourself. The boys immediately descend on the small bar set up in the back of the room.</p><p>“Here, I assume you need one of these,” Lawrence shoves a beer in your shaking hands. </p><p>“You assume right, good sir.”</p><p>“How the hell did we lose Steve already?” Eddie gripes. Rich easily spots him over the tops of heads surrounding them, pointing to a tall figure pushing his way towards the front of the box that opens up into seating. You all follow, mummering polite excuse me’s and thank you’s as you try to keep up. You can hear Play The Game get louder as you approach the view. </p><p>Steve rushes to the first row of seats, leaning over the railing of the balcony. “God, will you look at all these people?” he marvels, watching as the dancing lights illuminate the mass below him.</p><p>But you’re not looking at the crowd. Your gaze immediately finds the stage, where Freddie is situated behind a piano off to the left. His voice booms as if he were standing right next to you, and you’re positive that even without a mic, it would be heard by all 20,000 individuals. His eyes are closed as he slams hard on the piano, seemingly in his own world, yet the entire crowd is wholly entranced.</p><p>Brian then casually lopes to center for his solo. He smiles out at the crowd as his fingers dance across the frets gracefully while Eddie screams in appreciation throughout. He then jogs back to his mic, nearly missing his cue for his backing vocals, but his fingers never rest. Roger’s gravely falsetto catches your ear, and you train your eyes on the multitasking drummer. Even up behind his kit, his presence takes center stage while he keeps perfect time. The group ends the song in perfect synchronicity as the lights cut to black.</p><p>The chords for Somebody To Love start with a few majestic trills from Freddie’s voice, but your attention is once again grabbed away. Towards the back of the stage, still cast in darkness, you see John. He quickly shrugs off a fitted leather jacket to reveal an even tighter full cerulean blue ensemble before a roadie slips the strap of his bass over his head. He strolls into the light just as Freddie finishes his improv, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as they begin the song.</p><p>While he keeps his gaze mostly pointed to the ground, his body already thrums with anticipation. As it really gets going, you watch as he comes to life. You can’t help but hang onto his every movement; the unintentional jerks of his head, the light two-step of his feet as he shuffles along to his bass line's groove. He seems entirely at the will of the song and loving every minute of it. A pang of jealousy hits your chest as you wonder if you’d ever feel that free on stage.</p><p>Not much conversation passes between you and the boys as you watch on, more than a bit awestruck. You’re not sure how many songs pass, but fresh beers repeatedly appear in your hands every so often. The lights are dizzyingly bright as your eyes skip around the stage, trying to absorb as much as you can. You find they consistently flick back to John, sucking in every minutia of his performance. Your chest tightens like it did the day of Pop Quiz. Every time he had caught your eye, you remember having to push down the inescapable thoughts you were having. You would tell yourself you don’t know what it is about him, but you’d be lying. </p><p>A voice jolts you out of your stupor. “You must be Fred’s young friends he met in New Haven.”</p><p>The group turns to find a small man situated in the row behind them wearing an impeccably tailored suit.</p><p>“Jim Beach, manager for the band,” he holds out a hand for each of you to shake. “Sorry for the last-minute invitation. Fred was simply beside himself when he remembered you’re all from New York. So glad you could make it.”</p><p>“This is incredible, thanks so much for having us,” Rich tells the man sincerely as his gaze keeps being drawn back to the stage.</p><p>“Glad you’re enjoying yourselves. We’ve always been big fans of playing here.”</p><p>“It’s quite the spectacle,” you muse. “I've never seen The Garden this decked out before. I mean, those lighting rigs alone must cost…” you trail off.</p><p>“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Jim replies with a quirk of his lips. “If you’d all like to follow me downstairs, they’ll be finishing up soon, and I’m sure Fred would love to thank you for coming.”</p><p>Steve leaps from his plastic seat, “Yes, please!”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>The green room is unlike any you’ve ever seen—rust-colored persian rugs litter the floor, the grey slate underneath barely peeking through. Tapestries and various paintings line the walls, somehow giving the usually sterile space a homey feel. Multiple buffet tables filled with every accoutrement imaginable are tucked away in a back corner.</p><p>The room is scarce of people for the most part. Crew members filter in and out, grabbing waters, some puffing on cigarettes as they wipe down their sweaty foreheads. A select few have migrated down from the skybox as well.</p><p>Lawrence plops down on one of the many leather couches, taking in the room. “So this is what it’s like when you make it?”</p><p>“Seems a little excessive even for a band of their stature,” murmurs Rich as if reading your mind.</p><p>The deafening roar of the crowd is heard from above, and Queen closes out their encore. The crew members who are now needed for the post set break-down hurry from the room as it gets quiet. You all sit there in near silence for a few moments until a light cheer erupts as Freddie, Brian, and Roger all enter the room, swaddled in thick robes and towels around their necks. They're breathing heavy, still radiating the energy from their set, knowing full well that it was a fantastic show.</p><p>“Thank you, darling,” Freddie says as someone hands him a bottle of cold water, glancing around at the people who are still giving the band a wide berth. He spots the group of you huddled out of the way. “Oh!” he exclaims with a clap of his hands, making his way over, “You made it!”</p><p>He kisses you all on the cheeks, leaving a ghost of sweat on your faces. “My gangly young saplings! It’s lovely to see you.” He locks eyes with you, a wicked grin on his face. “And you most of all, my little cottontail.”</p><p>“You were fantastic Freddie, thank you so much for thinking of us, really,” you tell him genuinely.</p><p>“And who have we got here?” a towering Brian May appears behind Freddie.</p><p>“Oh yes, may I present to you, Lo &amp; The Limbs!” Freddie says, spreading his arms wide. So he does remember the name; you laugh to yourself.</p><p>Eddie pushes further into the group to immediately extend his hand. “You slayed tonight, man. I mean, really slayed.”</p><p>Brian returns the shake with a surprised laugh. “Why, thank you. I’ve heard your album, and I have to say, you all… slay as well.”</p><p>“Oy, you!” A disheveled looking Roger Taylor makes his way over to the group, people parting like the red sea before him. He marches straight up to you, his finger inches from your nose. “I lost quite a lot of quid, thanks to you.”</p><p>You shrink back a bit. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“It would be like John to bring in a ringer at the last second. And after we’d already threw down our bets.” You glance at Freddie with a confused look still on your face.</p><p>“What a lovely way to welcome our new friends,” Brian throws an arm over Roger’s shoulder before turning to you. “We may have made a slight wager on John’s most recent Pop Quiz appearance.”</p><p>“Slight?” Freddie smirks. “My new Gucci loafers would disagree, darling.”</p><p>Roger lets out an incoherent grumble. “Well, he usually fucks it up, doesn’t he? That is until you snuck in there.”</p><p>“I’m… sorry?” you offer, failing to find a witty remark for the situation.</p><p>He heaves a dramatic sigh, “I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me. I’ve been looking for someone to help me bury the bodies, or do my taxes, or be on call if I perhaps fancied a shag in the middle of the night?” he raises his brows in an overtly teasing manner.</p><p>You let out a sharp snort. “Fancy a shag? God, that sounds so much better than “ya wanna go fuck?”</p><p>Roger chuckles heartily, “Alright, alright. It was touch and go there for a bit, but I’ve come ‘round. I like this one. She can stay.”</p><p>“Y’know, we made a bet of sorts as well,” Lawrence reveals with a mischievous grin. The men all look to him, intrigued. “How long Y/N could keep her cool around that bassist of yours. She failed miserably, and now we shall reap the benefits by teasing her mercilessly until the end of time.”</p><p>You swear your mouth couldn’t have dropped open faster. Really need to work on that poker face, you tell yourself.</p><p>“Someone was trying to be cool around Deacy? Are you sure you’ve met the man?” Brian laughs.</p><p>Staring blankly around, all you know is you need to get out of this situation fast. “I need to pee,” you announce loudly. Really, Y/N? “Excuse me.”</p><p>Quickly ducking out of the room before anyone can say anything, you lean your back up against the wall in the hallway as you collect your swimming thoughts. What was it about this band that made you get all dumbstruck? Truth be told, you weren’t usually a timid person. Sure, everyone had bouts of social anxiety now and again, but you navigated social interactions seamlessly for the most part. It had always been easy for you to make friends or crack a quick comeback at a joke. Teasing was a form of endearment where you came from. But ever since you’d entered this new world, it was as if you were a stranger in your body. Who happened to be almost mute apparently. You push yourself off the wall to find a bathroom, your mind still fully occupied by your inner ramblings.</p><p>“Points!” a roadie shouts at you, trying to get your attention as they push a cart of cumbersome looking sound equipment right into your path. Before you have time to react, two hands grip your waist and pull you back to your previous position against the wall. </p><p>Once again, you are face to face with a familiar chest. You watch as a light chuckle rumbles through it.</p><p>“I know it’s cheesy to say, but we have to stop meeting like this. Or do you make it a point to always bumble about in narrow hallways?” John pulls his hands back to his side as you meet his attractive colored eyes, amusement flickering in them. </p><p>“John. Hi,” is all you manage.</p><p>“Good to see you again, Y/N. Freddie mentioned you all might be stopping by. Glad you could make it.”</p><p>You try and will your new persona not to take hold, but all you can do is smile meekly at him. He regards you patiently, cocking his head to the side slightly.</p><p>“Did you enjoy the show?”</p><p>“Yes, very much,” you rush out quickly. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. The Garden’s not an easy place to play.”</p><p>“Thank you. You’re kind," he smiles bashfully. "The crowds in New York are some of my favorites. I wish we got the chance to spend more time here, but it seems we’re always passing through.”</p><p>“Am I interrupting?” Freddie asks with raised eyebrows from the doorway, a grin on his face.</p><p>John makes his way over to him. “Not at all. Just heroically saving Y/N from a near-death run-in with Ratty.”</p><p>“Sounds about right,” Freddie muses. “Now, if we’re all safe and sound, I’d like to get out of here. I’m positively starving.”</p><p>“Where to?” John asks.</p><p>“I want to go someplace real New Yorkers go,” he looks to you expectantly.</p><p>“Bun-bun?” you hear from inside before Steve pokes his head around Fred.</p><p>“Is your grandpa working tonight?”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>Even John knew of Elaine’s. He’d hadn’t heard about it because the notable food, but rather the wide variety of clientele it boasted. Writers, directors, actors, and musicians alike frequently filled the establishment for the ambiance and lively conversation. Freddie would love it.</p><p>The large group enters through the wood door under a large awning, immediately hit by a wall of sound. The small place is packed to the brim. Raucous laughter can be heard from most tables as the patrons sardine together, shouting over one another. It had a certain charm, he guessed, taking in the decor of signed book covers and hand-painted murals.</p><p>“Bambina!” A small italian-looking maitre d' steps from behind the counter and spreads his arms wide as he engulfs Y/N into a hug. “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by tonight.”</p><p>“Sorry, Papa. It was last minute. Just in time for the 10:30 rush by the looks of it.”</p><p>An infectiously warm smile spreads across his face. “Do you see me complaining? You hardly visit anymore now that you’re running around the world with that guitar. I’m so proud of you,” he adds softly, kissing her forehead. “Look at these boys!” he greets the rest of The Limbs like family, clapping each man on the back with love. “Am I shrinking already, or are all you still growing?”</p><p>“Probably a little of both, Dom,” Eddie laughs with the old man.</p><p>“And there’s even more, I see,” he inquires, finally noticing Queen.</p><p>It was unusual for them not to be the center of attention in any given situation, all of them hanging back except for Freddie, who marches right up to the man and places a kiss on his cheek.</p><p>“Freddie Mercury, a dear friend of your Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”</p><p>He looks to Y/N suspiciously. “Are they musicians? You know what happened that one time. I had to pry Elaine off of beating that tiny Mickey guy. I’m telling ya, it was ugly.”</p><p>“Not Mickey- Mick, Papa. How many times do I have to tell you?” Y/N shushes him, looking a bit embarrassed.</p><p>Dom waves his hand at her, “Whoever he is, that kid owes me his life. I expect these ones to behave.”</p><p>Roger snorts from the back, “Not very likely.”</p><p>“We promise,” Freddie swears. “And might I say, I love the suit. Very dashing,” he adds on for good measure.</p><p>“Well, how else do you think I got this job?” Dom smiles at him with a wink. “C’mon,” he gestures for all to follow as he leads them through the narrow restaurant, to a long table in the back. “Enjoy, boys,” he tells them as he heads back to his post up front, kissing Y/N on the cheek before leaving.</p><p>“Come sit next to me, my love,” Freddie calls to Y/N, patting the seat beside him. “If any of your other family members are as outrageous as that man, I want to hear all about them.”</p><p>The group moves to squish in around the table. Roger silently catches John’s eye and motions to the seat next to Y/N. He quirks his brows at him, confused, but makes his way to sit between them.</p><p>Eddie has taken his rightful place next to Brian with Rich in tow, the three already in deep conversation about the current music scene. Lawrence and Roger sit opposite each other, tearing into the bread basket and chatting about the show. Next to Freddie, Steve is eagerly hanging onto every word he says as he chats to Y/N about her upbringing.</p><p>“I’m just hoping one day we get to do something like that, man. Our show on Sunday should be a pretty big deal, though,” Lawrence tells Roger.</p><p>“Where are you playing? CBGB? The Palladium?” </p><p>“Nah, we’re playing out on the island. Jones Beach.”</p><p>“Huh, Long Island. We’ve never been to Long Island before,” Roger ponders, intrigued. “What’s there to do on Long Island?”</p><p>“Well, do you like bowling? Strip malls?” Lawrence pauses for effect. “Bowling at strip malls?”</p><p>John lightly chuckles. An arm brushes his shoulder, and he moves back slightly as a large woman weaves her hands around Y/N’s shoulders.</p><p>“My little Y/N has come back to us! And surrounded by even more devilishly handsome men than usual.”</p><p>Y/N turns around in her seat to give the woman a proper hug. “Elaine! It’s been too long.”</p><p>“Let me get a good look at you,” she gestures for Y/N to spin as she regards her. “If you need help beating em’ off of ya, I have my bat behind the counter.”</p><p>Y/N rolls her eyes, teasingly, “Don’t I know it. I have a vivid childhood memory of you chasing Ron Galella around the dining room with that thing.”</p><p>Elaine lets out a larger than life laugh at the memory, patting the young girl on the back. “Oh, those were the good years. So, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends?”</p><p>“Elaine! I’m hurt you don’t remember our beautiful time together,” Eddie teases her from the table's end.</p><p>“Shut it, Eddie,” she reprimands him with a point of her stubby finger.</p><p>Y/N turns to the group, spreading her arms wide. “Guys, this is Elaine Kaufman, of Elaine’s, obviously. Elaine, this is Queen.”</p><p>She attempts a half-hearted curtsey. “Your majesties. Welcome.”</p><p>Before long, Elaine has pulled up a chair as she cracks dirty jokes back and forth with Freddie, which has the rest of the group (and some nearby diners) howling in laughter. Y/N’s now-familiar cackle sends tingles through John’s body once again. She’s more relaxed than he’s previously seen her be. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, showcasing her broad smile as she looks on fondly, hands waving about whenever she joins in the conversation. Her face is mostly free of makeup and he catches the hint of a dimple on one of her cheeks as she glances over at him to share in a joke.</p><p>Freddie gasps as he catches someone entering the front door. “Is that Shirley MacLaine? Slap my ass and call me Sally, that woman does not age.”</p><p>“Come with me,” Elaine says, rising from her chair. “I think she’ll like you.”</p><p>Food appears without any of them having to order, along with bottles of wine Elaine insisted they’d love. John tentatively takes a bite of one of the dishes set before him.</p><p>“Oh god,” he blurts out upon tasting.</p><p>Y/N snickers beside him. “Bad, right? I recommend the tortellini if you want something remotely edible.” She pushes a plate towards him, snagging some for herself.</p><p>He gulps down water, trying to rid himself of the bland taste. “I would ask why this place is packed, but it seems I’ve already met her.”</p><p>“And you would be right. She’s a riot, but I fully blame her for my vulgar vocabulary,” she reveals, taking a giant bite of pasta.</p><p>“You and Freddie seem to have that in common.”</p><p>Y/N chews slowly as she muses over that sentiment. “That seems to be the only thing we have in common,” she says softly. He cocks his head at her in question.</p><p>“It’s just,” she starts, a somber look replacing her previously buoyant one. “Watching him on stage tonight. All of you actually. You seem so free, so comfortable up there. And Freddie is just magnetic, you know that. It’s as if he makes the crowd fall in love with him again and again with every song. I could never do that…”</p><p>“I find that quite hard to believe,” he mumbles, continuing on quickly. “Freddie’s a performer. Everything he does up there is for that crowd. Whereas I’m just a musician, I think. It probably helps that I don’t sing. It'll just take some time to find your footing. You don’t have to be both. You don't have to be either for that matter.”</p><p>She scoffs lightly, pushing the food around on her plate. “Don’t I? Ever since this all began, I feel like I’m some paper doll or something. People just dress me up and mold me into what they want. And I go right along with it because I don’t even recognize this version of myself if I’m being honest. So I just keep that mask on until I get back home and I can finally breathe. Because then, at least I don’t have to stare at a stranger in the mirror anymore.” </p><p>She breaks out of the daze she fell into while rambling. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t unload on you like this,” she catches herself. “I guess I just had a very different assumption of what my life would look like... I think I'm afraid of losing who I am in all this."</p><p>John takes her in, catching glimpses of his former self in her cracks. He itches to soothe her distress. “I can understand,” he tells her sympathetically. “Hell, I thought I was joining a band to play with on the side at uni and look at us now. Sometimes I still feel like I’m leading a double life. I tried to convince myself all this was just a job at first, but I’m sure you’re finding out quickly that’s not always true.”</p><p>Y/N looks at him intently, and it’s the first time he truly sees the depth of her eyes. He clears his throat before continuing.</p><p>“I've come to learn that the concept of home is a funny thing. For a long time, I held onto the idea of it that I always had for myself, but it’s harder than it looks with what we do,” he sighs, running a hand through his short curls, not wanting to dwell too long on his unpleasent situation back in England. </p><p>“But home can be anything really. It can be people,” he says, glancing at his bandmates. “Or even the stage, which sometimes I think is Freddie’s. Or you can be Roger, and make yourself at home wherever you go.”</p><p>They glance over at Rog, who is in the middle of an animated story, waving his glass of wine around as it drips on the tablecloth.</p><p>“So all you can do is find whatever that home is and hold onto it the best you can. And it might change, but that doesn't mean you have to," he nudges her shoulder with his.</p><p>Y/N smiles down at her lap. “Thank you,” she tells him quietly, still swimming in her own thoughts.</p><p>“Of course,” he assures, pausing to breathe- not used to giving long-winded explanations. Nervous that he’s pushed too far, he glances over, catching as her shoulders relax.</p><p>The restaurant was mostly cleared out by now, save for a few regulars sitting at the tall wood bar. The staff chats casually amongst themselves as they clean off empty tables for the night. Steve is giving Freddie details of the New York club scene, probably hoping to earn himself an invitation one day. Elaine’s regaling Brian, Eddie, and Rich with a story about two writers and a feud of accused plagiarism. Lawrence and Roger were currently attempting to turn their napkins into amusing hats for each other. John finds himself enjoying the young band's presence, their chaotic energy seeming to match Queen’s dynamic quite well.</p><p>The group collectively jumps as the music drastically raises in volume, the intro of Ray Charles’ ‘Hallelujah, I Love Her So’ pouring out.</p><p>“Oh god, no,” Y/N groans next to him as the waiters all turn their attention to her. Dom appears beside her with an outstretched hand. “Papa, not now, please.”</p><p>“Indulge your grandfather, Y/N,” he winks at her as she reluctantly takes his hand, pulling her to the middle of the room. John’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as the old man springs to life, twirling his granddaughter around the room with ease. The pure spryness of someone that age was genuinely shocking.</p><p>“Oh, this is fabulous!” Freddie laughs as he leans his chin forward on his hands.</p><p>And it was. The staff cheers, hinting that this was a familiar routine for them. The rest of The Limbs sing along with the track, watching the two affectionately like old family.</p><p>Y/N’s apprehensive look fades away as she gives in to the fun, pure joy flashing across her features as she glides along, following her grandfather in the swing dance rather gracefully. She looks free, John thinks to himself, drinking in the true version of the young woman. She was dazzling as her hair fell messily from her ponytail and her laugh was louder than ever as Dom dips her low to the floor, her body bending with him. If this was home, he could see why she was reluctant to leave it behind.</p><p>He’s mesmerized by her every movement. She was still an enigma to him, each detail he pulled from her, just making him hungry for more. </p><p>You shouldn’t. You’re still married. Well, technically. Papers aren’t signed yet.<br/>
“Alright, I’m convinced,” Roger shouts at Lawrence. “Looks like we'll have to stop in Long Island.”</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>“Fuck, it’s cold,” Brian announces, burrowing further into his white windbreaker.</p><p>The Jones Beach Theater was tucked right up to the shoreline, causing the spray of the Atlantic to chill the air despite the summer heat. John had never seen a venue like it. It’s as if the vast sea acted as an extended backdrop to the stage, reflecting the stars and inky drape of the night.</p><p>The crowd didn’t seem to mind at all. They had been brilliant the entire night, singing along to every one of the songs and dancing in full force. It was perfectly clear how proud they were of their hometown heroes.</p><p>The Limbs themselves were a sight to behold from the wings of the stage. The energy from the packed seats had bled over, and all 5 members were indeed feeling it. They had been in perfect sync with each other the entire show, and John was certainly amused by their own way of interacting with their audience. It mostly consisted of them hurling humorous insults back and forth to each other in between songs.</p><p>Even Y/N seemed to be enjoying herself, despite her confession the other night. She had taken Freddie’s note that he’d given after seeing her dance and was now stepping out from behind the mic stand for her songs. She slinked around the stage effortlessly, interacting with the other members and the crowd, much to their glee.</p><p>“Before we say goodnight to you all, we’d like to leave you with a little something,” Rich calls out over the deafening cheers. “A lullaby of sorts from one of our favorites.”</p><p>Y/N drags a stool out to the center of the stage as Lawrence begins a somber melody on the keyboard. The audiences erupts in cheers and John recognizes it as a Billy Joel song.</p><p>She takes a seat behind the mic as she gazes out over the crowd. The exhilarated face she had been sporting all night was gone, a shade of melancholy in its place now.</p><p>::Goodnight, my angel, time to close your eyes<br/>
And save these questions for another day<br/>
I think I know what you’ve been asking me<br/>
I think you know what I’ve been trying to say::</p><p>Her hypnotic voice pierces through the now-silent crowd. The type of voice you immediately feel in your chest, as if it’s personally strumming your heartstrings. No one dares to sing along, afraid they'll miss a moment of her inflection.</p><p>::I promised I would never leave you<br/>
Then you should always know<br/>
Wherever you may go, no matter where you are<br/>
I never will be far away::</p><p>The familiar sight of lighters being illuminated flickers through the sea of people before them, casting a hazy glow on the previously faceless patrons. Their peaceful stares fixed on Y/N, entranced as if she was siren of sorts.</p><p>::Goodnight my angel, now it’s time to dream<br/>
And dream how wonderful your life will be<br/>
Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullaby<br/>
Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me::</p><p>Her voice breaks a bit, giving away the glassiness of her eyes. They’re not fixed on the crowd, but instead on the sky beyond them. John watches the panes of her face intently. She wasn’t singing to them, he realizes. This was to herself. Possibly to that image in her mind, she had confided in him, the one she was struggling to leave behind—her piece of home.</p><p>::Someday we’ll all be gone<br/>
But lullabies go on and on::</p><p>“She’s going to be something else, isn’t she?” Freddie asks, mostly to himself.</p><p>::They never die<br/>
That’s how you and I will be::</p><p>John watches as a single tear slips off the slope of her nose as she finishes, bowing her head.</p><p>“Yeah, I think she is.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September 1982 - The Music Inn, New York City</p><p>“Bri, get a load of all these fucking maracas!”</p><p>Brian makes his way over to where Roger is gazing at a massive wall adorned with shaker-filled shelves, dipping his head low to avoid the sea of guitars hanging from the ceiling above his long frame. </p><p>Queen was back in New York for their first-ever appearance on Saturday Night Live. Finding time in between the intensive rehearsals during the week had been hard, but Freddie insisted they would make the time for his favorite New Yorkers. When the time was finally found, he, of course, was unavailable, off antiquing at some of Manhattan’s luxury spots but promised to meet up with the group later on. </p><p>The Limbs managed to snag the other three men for a trip to the historic Music Inn. Nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, the dingy treasure trove was located a stone’s throw away from the city’s most prominent folk clubs that boasted discovering the talents of Bob Dylan and Simon &amp; Garfunkel. </p><p>You were quite confident that your newfound English friends would love it. Every visible space was stuffed or covered with an abundance of musical paraphernalia. So much so that you had been in the store dozens of times without ever finding out what color the walls were. Its layout was always changing to fit the ever-growing amount of items displayed, the familiar specks of dust that sparkled in the sunlight being the only constants.</p><p>“Hey, Jeff!” Steve calls out to the eccentric owner. “Where are these from?” </p><p>The aging hippie shuffles over. “Mostly South America,” he explains in his usual gravelly drawl. “A customer brought back some new shekeres from West Africa last week that have a nice sound to them.” Jeff motions up the sprawling wall. Roger immediately grabs a few, testing the sounds out against the ones Steve is already playing with - the two of them like kids in a candy store.</p><p>Jeff had been a good friend to The Limbs since their early teen years, having let the group spend hours on end attempting to learn every exotic instrument they could get their hands on. Anyone who entered the shop could count on him as a spirit guide of sorts to a wealth of worldly music. And while The Limbs had kept their first album fairly plain in context, they were already itching, particularly Steve, to experiment on the next album. Whenever that would be.</p><p>Now that a few more of their singles were moderately successful hits, Columbia Records was focused on milking it for all that it was worth. The execs were currently setting up an extensive American tour of the Mid - West Coast part of the country, all the major cities they hadn’t hit on their first tour. </p><p>“Y/N,” Jeff gestures for you to follow him, probably excited to show you a new find seeing as you were always eager and willing to give them a test run. You make your way down the staircase lined with large balalaikas to the musty lower level filled with various sound equipment and electronic instruments. </p><p>“What on god’s green earth would you use that for?” you hear Rich’s deep voice implore. He rolls his eyes as Eddie moons over an ornately engraved mandolin.</p><p>“It worked for Rod Stewart, didn’t it? That mandolin solo in Maggie May shredded,” he retorts. “Plus, look how pretty she is!”</p><p>You watch your feet as you carefully maneuver around the amps and pedals haphazardly strewn around the floor, following Jeff to the back of the room - taking special care to step around John, who is crouched low looking over the wiring of a particularly grody-looking amp.</p><p>Upon entering the store, he had taken off on his own right away, immediately entranced by the sprawling selection all about him. But you had caught the worn, far-off look in his eyes when he greeted you with a short wave earlier. You try not to let the lack of attention bother you as you pass him without so much as a glance up. The heartfelt conversation you had the last time they were in town had rooted itself in your memory. Spilling your guts like you did that night wasn't a common occurrence for you- figuring you were already easy enough to read due to the panicked expression often etched onto your face. </p><p>Why him? Even your bandmates weren’t privy to the babblings of your intimate thoughts. It couldn’t just be his boyish tooth-gap or the pleasing line of his straight nose. Maybe it was the confusing mix of nerves and comfort you felt whenever in his presence. It was unlike the persistent butterflies you were used to when around attractive humans. Feeling instead like a gentle humming that you somehow sensed everywhere at once.</p><p>You’re brought out of your swimming thoughts as Jeff clears his throat loudly to get your attention. You must’ve been staring blankly at the floor for quite a while. He gestures to a bulky item draped in a tarp, as you give him a small apologetic smile.</p><p>“Oh yes, very pretty,” you smirk at him.</p><p>He rolls his eyes as he attempts to sweep the tarp off in a dramatic reveal, but in reality, it gets stuck. The man scrambles to uncover it, and as soon as it peeks out, you gasp.</p><p>“A theremin!”</p><p>You gaze at the ordinary-looking wooden cabinet in awe. It must be old, seeing as they were mostly compact now.</p><p>“You haven’t had one in ages,” you marvel, locking eyes with Jeff.</p><p>“Which means it’s been a while since I’ve heard your ambient screeches plaguing these walls.”</p><p>Your finger points to him in protest. “Hey, I was getting better until you sold the last one on me!”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t see you making a bid for it,” he playfully shrugs.</p><p>“Let’s hear those screeches!” Eddie yells out. Rich claps his hands excitedly beside him. You poke your tongue out at them, but your eyes catch John’s, and you quickly close your mouth. Still crouched, he looks on with mild curiosity wrinkled on his brow. He lightly raises them at you in silent encouragement.</p><p>You slowly make your way behind the instrument as Jeff plugs it into the wall. Turning one of the knobs, it hums to life as you check the metal attachments protruding from the wood frame. It really is old. You have no idea how to even begin to calibrate it. Taking a deep breath, you timidly bring your hands up in position.</p><p>It lets out a high pitched wail that burns your ears from being so close, and you yank your hands away from the field of current. Eddie and Rich erupt into cheers while John slowly stands, moving a bit closer to see the mechanism properly.</p><p>Jeff lightly pushes you back towards it in a gentle coax. This time you slowly bring your curled hand a reasonable distance away from the pitch antenna, keeping your other low on the one for volume. Squeezing your eyes shut to focus on the tone, you slowly move until you find your starting note. It was all about sense memory and your ears to fill the gaps with nothing to physically touch. </p><p>Uncurling your fingers, you begin the opening notes of Moonlight in Vermont - the one song you had somewhat taught yourself through hours of painstaking practice. You fumble a bit, eliciting a squeak or two while trying to remember the hand placements that produce the proper notes. While you might “play” many instruments, you were middling at many, master of none. You make it through the first verse before your head starts to pound from your jaw-clenched concentration.</p><p>“Fuck the mandolin, let’s get that for the next album!” you hear Rich tell Eddie.</p><p>“Ah, yes, you’ve heard Pet Sounds. Now prepare your ears for The Limb’s sophomore attempt, Ghost Sounds,” </p><p>Their banter is drowned out as John chimes in. “How on earth did you learn that?” You meet his struck expression and shrug lightly.</p><p>“Don’t downplay it, Bun. It’s pretty fucking cool,” Rich assures you. “And her knowing ASL also helps,” he explains to John.</p><p>“Sign language?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, Y/N’s mom is deaf,” Eddie reveals bluntly. You shoot him a look.</p><p>“Sorry, hard of hearing,” he holds his hands out in defense.</p><p>John is silent for a moment as he mulls the information over, causing a speck of tension in the room.</p><p>“Your mother’s never heard you sing?” he asks incredulously as if he can’t possibly imagine it.</p><p>You give a small smile. “No, I guess she hasn’t. But I was in the car with her the first time I heard us on the radio. I turned the treble down and the bass all the way up and she bopped along to the beat pretty well.”</p><p>Rich chuckles lightly at the story. “She’s always been hoot, hasn’t she?”</p><p>You nod gently. “Aptly put. That’s how she describes herself as a matter of fact.”</p><p>John shoves his hands deep in his pockets as he takes a look around the room, his cheeks a light pink. You're unsure of why.</p><p>“I’m gonna head out for a quick smoke,” you decide, patting Jeff on the shoulder. “I know how you hate it.”</p><p>He gives your hand a light squeeze before you make your way upstairs, hoping to catch John’s eyes, but he avoids yours yet again. </p><p>A pleasing blend of harmonies can be heard as you hit the landing. You peek your head around a large assortment of bongos to find Brian strumming a small acoustic on the other side of the store. Roger, Steve, and Lawrence all crammed around, the four of them singing a rendition of Blues Run the Game. </p><p>Your heart warms at the sight, remembering the times when you and the boys would sit around a campfire and croon out the same sad tune. Eddie and Rich will be pissed they missed this. Steve notices your presence and silently ticks his head for you to come join. You hold up your pack of Marlborough’s in response to him before finally slipping out the front, trying your best to not jingle the adorned bells too much.</p><p>A cool breeze promptly passes through the knit of your sweater. It’s late September, and New York has begun to really cool off. You pull down the sleeves to cover your hands as you light your cigarette, wincing a bit on the first inhale. It was a leftover habit from your college days- scarcely used, only in social situations, or to get out of awkward ones.</p><p>Taking in the familiar street, you can’t help but giggle at the day you were having. To be showing Queen around your old hangout still felt absurd. No matter how genuinely they seemed to like the company of your band, you couldn’t fathom them wanting to spend the day with you all. Weren’t there bigger and better musicians in this city to be hanging out with? </p><p>The sound of a lighter flicking to life comes from your left, and you turn. John leans against the faded wall as he takes a drag, his eyes trained on the dirty sidewalk. </p><p>“I’m sorry, i- if I offended you with my comment about your mother,” he professes quietly. </p><p>Your brows shoot up in confusion. “What?”</p><p>“We have a friend whose father is deaf. A lovely man. I shouldn’t have been so insensitive.” He sighs, finally turning to face you. “It’s just that the memory of hearing your voice for the first time isn’t something one can easily shake. I mean that in a way that- it’s just a shame really. For her to not be able to share in it when it’s something so...” he looks as if he’s racking his brain for an appropriate word. “Well, singular.”</p><p>You suck in a breath at his words. In all your years, you had never gotten that as a response to your mother’s disability. It was mostly a polite, “Oh, really? I’m so sorry to hear that.” His honesty and consideration for your feelings knock the present hum of your body up to 100. </p><p>You flinch as gentle burning hits your fingers, and you look down at your forgotten cigarette, quickly flicking it to the ground before crushing it under your heel. John shifts his weight from side to side, never taking his eyes off of you while he waits for you to collect your thoughts.</p><p>“I write out my lyrics for her so she can read them as poems,” you state simply, smiling up at him. “Sometimes she makes up her own melodies and sings them around the house. It’s not the easiest on the ears, but she’s pretty inventive.” His eyes crinkle as he returns your grin - his first genuine one of the day.</p><p>“So she’s heard music before?”</p><p>“Oh yeah. She has nerve deafness, which didn’t start till her late twenties. She actually spent a lot of time around here when she was younger. Bitter End and The Gaslight are just a few blocks away.”</p><p>He hums lightly as he stares at you- like you’re a puzzle whose pieces are just beginning to fit together.</p><p>“Can you teach me something in sign language?”</p><p>Once again, your brows shoot up, shocked by his response. You blink a few times, trying to think of what to say. Going with the only thing that pops to mind, you sign out a phrase as he watches your hands intently.</p><p>“And what does that mean?”</p><p>You smirk, “You are a cheesy cow.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” he laughs out.</p><p>You repeat it back slowly while signing along. “You. Are. A. Cheesy. Cow. It’s the first thing my mother taught me how to sign.”</p><p>He runs his hand over his jaw as he chuckles. “Rich was right. A hoot she must be.”</p><p>“I’m pretty shit, to be honest, and she read lips, so it’s mostly used for snide comments during extended family gatherings.”</p><p>You watch as he puts out his cigarette and carefully takes a step closer to you. “I’m assuming your colourful vocabulary extends to those instances as well.”</p><p>“Right you are.”</p><p>“Freddie will love that,” he snickers. “He always seems to collect vulgarities in other languages wherever we go.”</p><p>Your attention is torn away as a sleek black car rolls up to a stop at the curb. It’s out of place in the middle of the street filled with old and worn buildings, which can similarly describe the people who mill about.</p><p>“Speak of the Queen herself,” you laugh as a sunglass-clad Freddie steps onto the sidewalk.</p><p>“Oh, isn’t this quaint!” he exclaims, peering into the shop window. He straightens as he turns to you, hands-on-hips.</p><p>“Deacy. Thumper. Are we fans of freezing our tits off, or shall we go inside?”</p><p>You give John a small smile and push yourself off the wall, making your way over to Freddie, who immediately pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. The bells against the door ring out as you all enter the shop.</p><p>“Ah, Deacy,” Brian pokes his head out from one of the narrow aisles, still in a constant crouch to avoid the instruments above his head. “I was looking for you. Found these adorable teeny guitars I thought might be good to bring back for the kids. What do you think?”</p><p>“Kids?” you mumble to yourself as John makes his way over to inspect them.</p><p>“Brian has two, and John’s already up to 3. Maybe we should’ve nicknamed him Bunny.” Freddie laughs, nudging your arm. “You know… fucking like rabbits,” he expands due to your lack of chuckling.</p><p>He leans into your field of vision as he studies your statue-like expression, eyebrows knit in confusion. His eyes take in your ashen face and your lifeless expression. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing. When you lock your eyes with his, you know he understands from the sheer size of how big they become. He straightens up, glancing around quickly as if looking for something to put out a fire.</p><p>“Freddie!” Steven dances over, clicking a pair of castanets in his hands. “I wanted to show you thi-”</p><p>“So sorry, love, we can’t. Y/N promised to come to a fitting with me, and we’re already late," he announces loudly, pulling you by the arm and out the door before anyone can react.</p><p>- - - - - - -<br/>You blankly stare at your reflection in the long mirror. Freddie had instructed his stylist to pull some outfits for you to parade around in as he tried on a bevy of metallic coats.</p><p>“You’re an idiot,” you tell the girl staring back at you.</p><p>Freddie sashays over, a shag jacket swaying with him as he places his hands on your shoulders, surveying the strappy dress you were currently squeezed into.</p><p>“Oh yes, this will do for the after-party,” he instructs.</p><p>“I’m not going.”</p><p>He heaves a deep sigh. “Darling, you already refused the ticket I got you for the show. You’re coming to the party,” he declares, turning away to look at more options.</p><p>“This isn’t really me…” you mumble, gesturing to the dress.</p><p>He regards you with a small smile. “Exactly. I say this with love, but you need a look, Y/N. Something that makes you feel unstoppable,” he gestures to his body as he twirls towards you. “Don’t you want to shock them?”</p><p>You chew your lip as you ponder that sentiment. Dawn usually just shoved you into whatever ensemble she had picked for you - leather jackets, monochromatic sets, tight jumpsuits. She kept hoping you’d find a style you fancied, but you had yet to find anything remotely likable under the lights of the stage.</p><p>“To be honest, I just want to be able to feel comfortable out there," you sigh. "But I can’t strut around in flashy outfits or conduct a whole crowd like you do." Huffing as you collapse onto one of the white couches around you. He perches beside you, throwing an arm around the back of the sofa.</p><p>“Then don’t,” he says simply.</p><p>You snort a response as you cross your arms over your chest.</p><p>“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but have you tried showing them a bit more of yourself?”</p><p>“I can’t do that.”</p><p>He turns to you now, grabbing your attention with his eyes.</p><p>“And why not?” he questions.</p><p>You gaze down at your hands, which you’re now wringing together in your lap. “What if it’s nothing spectacular?” you whisper out the criticism that you'd drilled into your mind for the past year.</p><p>Freddie laughs lightly as he stands. “Let’s not start lying to ourselves, shall we?” He moves in front of you and kneels, now at eye level, making so you can’t look away.</p><p>“Sometimes people go to a concert for an escape. A big bloody show with dazzling lights and petite men galavanting around a stage in spandex tights,” he smiles. </p><p>“But most of the time they just want to find a piece of themselves in it, don’t they? Commonality. They want to hear you, see you, and feel just a little less alone than we all know we are. I saw just a slice of it at your concert, and it was indeed something spectacular. So take that as you will.”</p><p>You’re not one to cry much, but your eyes soften as you take in the icon of a man in front of you. A man loved by millions, who was currently filling in as your personal rock n’ roll fairy godmother.</p><p>“You’re a fantastic person, you know that?” you tell him genuinely.</p><p>“Yes,” he quips as he gets to his feet. “Now, are we done scurrying around the real problem at hand?”</p><p>You sigh as you look away, firmly willing yourself not to break the dam of bottled emotions threatening to spill out. Why couldn't you just feel numb? It would be better than the wave of childish self-pity you found yourself in.</p><p>Freddie huffs at your reaction. “Oh, you brat. Sorry to tell you, but you’re an open book, my dear. And not one of those big pompous things Brian reads. A bloody children’s book. One filled with pictures.”</p><p>You're sure you’ve now bitten through the entire top layer of your lip as you contemplate how to even begin.</p><p>“I’m an idiot,” you shrug to yourself yet again.</p><p>“No,” he points a finger at you. “You’re decidedly not. Though I am curious as to how someone who’s as big of a fan as your friends say you are, missed out on that detail.”</p><p>“I’m not sure either. I mean, I listen to your albums and go to your show, but I guess I didn’t pour over the tabloids or press interviews or anything like that.”</p><p>Freddie nods along as he sifts through another rack of jackets, choosing an incredibly tight white leather number.</p><p>“I assumed you knew,” he answers while glancing at his reflection. “And I would say Deacy should know better, but he’s not quite himself at the moment.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” you press, suddenly much more interested in the conversation.</p><p>He turns to you, palms up in explanation. “It’s not that he wouldn’t normally be charmed by your shy presence and occasionally crass mouth… But I’m a bit worried he’s finding comfort in your smiles for the wrong reasons.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Sighing heavily as if debating if he should keep skirting around his words, he holds your gaze. “An impending divorce is crippling lonely, even if it is somewhat amicable.”</p><p>His mouth is brought into a pout as you suck in a sharp breath. </p><p>Divorce. All your previous interactions play through your head from a different angle. Pity sneaks up on you as you remember John’s advice he’d given you. The concept of home is a funny thing. You scoff out loud at how your childlike crush had skewed your interpretation of your relationship with the man.</p><p>“I’m usually the one singing his praises,” Freddie muses, breaking you out of your inner monologue of resentment towards yourself. “But he seems more lost than usual at the moment.” </p><p>He gently lifts your chin. “I don’t normally meddle in- well, actually I do. Just don’t want to see you get hurt, Bunny. Not when the world is soon to be at your feet.”</p><p>"I'm fine," you lie, gently brush away his gesture. "I barely even know the guy. I was just shocked to have my silly fascination with him interrupted. Stupid, really."</p><p>"Don't do that," he exhales. "Don't put it on yourself. You'd have to be blind to ignore the fact that he's quite taken with you."</p><p>"I'm fine," you repeat, making your way into the back to change out of the ridiculous dress that suddenly felt even tighter now.</p><p>Shutting the door slowly, you let out a deep breath. It's all good, you tell yourself. Of course you got caught up in the attention of a world-renown musician. Who wouldn't? It's nothing special. As Freddie said, he's not even acting like himself. Although you were indeed in true form- getting caught up by the slightest of interactions. Unconsciously playing them as a loop in your head. You can't help but cringe at your own escalation of the situation.</p><p>Squaring your shoulders, you take in the image of yourself in the dress again. Perhaps it was time for you to shock them all.</p><p>- - - - - - -<br/>“And so my grandfather goes out to the alley and sees her just wailing on this scrawny man. I mean, really going to town. So he pulls her off him, and the dude’s got a black eye and a bloody nose. And he’s like, “Thanks mate, thought she was gonna kill me there.”</p><p>Roger ruffles your hair in response to your poor attempt at a British accent. The group of cast and crew around you chuckle at the gesture. </p><p>You had decided that if you were going to be forcibly dragged to this after-party by your bandmates, you would at least aim to make it worthwhile. A debut of your new mentality.  One where you weren't just acting the part of a rising rock star, but living it. </p><p>Which is why at the moment, you found yourself the center of attention, surrounded by the cast and crew of SNL laughing along to your amusing story. But this was all hinged on you carefully, avoiding the presence of John Deacon at all costs. Which, in reality, wasn't very hard to do- you had yet to see him since arriving an hour ago.</p><p>“Oh my god, who was it?!” the young cast member beside you presses. You think her name is Julia, but the sheer amount of people you'd been introduced to was dizzying.</p><p>"That's exactly what we asked him when he told us. All he said was that it was some man with big lips who was in a fur coat and looked like he hadn't eaten in a month..."</p><p>The cam op across from you gasps, "It was MICK JAGGER? God bless your grandfather, I would've wept if she murdered him."</p><p>"So would my mom AND grandmother," you laugh. "Give us each a glass of wine, and it's basically a Mick fan club."</p><p>"Who else?" Brian taps your leg, surprisingly urging you to divulge more gossip.</p><p>You can't help but smirk as the group leans forward intently.</p><p>"Robin Williams?" you tease as their eyebrows all raise.</p><p>"Horrible tipper, but he makes up for it by performing dirty puppet shows with the napkins."</p><p>"Sounds about right," funnyman Brad Hall confirms, offering you another drink.</p><p>You politely decline, determined to keep your wits about you this evening. "I'm gonna go grab some water. Anyone want anything?"</p><p>The group shakes their heads, but Lawrence jumps up to join you on your trek to the crowded bar.</p><p>"Wouldn't it be insane if this was us one day?" he exclaims as you weave your way through the mass of bodies littering the Capitol Grill. </p><p>You smile up at him, "Dream big, buddy."</p><p>"Oh, I intend to," he confirms you as you spot Eddie and Rich waving you over from a spot at the bar. </p><p>Rich promptly wraps his arm around your shoulders as you join them. He always had a stoic way of letting you know he saw through the cracks in your poorly constructed armor. Taking the role of a caring older brother, more so than your own.</p><p>"Have we lost Steve again?" Lawrence asks the group.</p><p>Eddie nods across the room. "He's exactly where you think he'd be," he scoffs as you catch a glimpse of Steve, trailing Freddie like a lost puppy.</p><p>"Um, excuse me?" a short girl mumbles from behind Eddies' denim-clad shoulder. He turns, glancing down.</p><p>"Hiya," he regards her casually, causing her a deep blush to creep across her cheeks. She shoves a napkin and pen at him.</p><p>"C-could I get an autograph? Please?"</p><p>Eddie smirks at her flustered appearance, making sure to brush her fingers as he grabs the items out of her trembling hand.</p><p>"And what beautiful name should I be making this out to?"</p><p>She lets out a jarring high pitched giggle as she stumbles over her words. "Oh, uh, Shelley."</p><p>"Well, here ya go, Shelley," he hands the napkin back to her, now adorned with his messy scrawl. "Maybe I'll see you later."</p><p>She squeaks as she hurries back to her shrieking friends who are huddled conspicuously off to the side.</p><p>"Gross," you state. "She's a child. Probably one of the executive's kids." </p><p>He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Gotta keep em' interested, Bun. As the heartthrob of the group, it's my sworn duty."</p><p>"Slow your roll there, Rob Lowe," Rich interjects. "I think Y/N's giving you a run for your money in this dress."</p><p>You glance down at the Freddie approved ensemble. It was eye-catching for sure, precisely what you were going for. It's black suede straps crisscrossed strategically against your body, giving peaks of the skin underneath.</p><p>"It looks good, Bun," Rich assures you.</p><p>“Guys,” you all turn your attention to Steve, who has just joined the circle clumsily. His pupils are blown wide from his current blood alcohol content, and he sways slightly on his heels.</p><p>"I- I have something to say," he announces to the group, getting your attention. You all wait patiently as he hesitates, clearing his throat twice before lowering his voice. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m gay.”</p><p>You glance around to the other boys whose expressions mirror your own warm smile. You’d all known Steve was gay since high school, not that any of you had talked about it. You had just assumed it was something unspoken. That he’d tell you whenever he was ready or met someone good enough to introduce to you all.</p><p>Steve gapes at your expressions. "Where is the shock? I was expecting shock and awe, people!"</p><p>"Steve, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m assuming we’ve all known for a while," Rich says gently. You all nod lightly in agreement.</p><p>"How?"</p><p>"Do you remember the types of girls who used to throw themselves at you? Like Becky Whale? Man, I would’ve killed for Becky Whale to throw something at me. But you never took them up on it," Lawrence elaborates.</p><p>Steve smiles around at all of you, his shoulders visibly relaxing.</p><p>“I had a crush on Eddie in high school,” he confesses.</p><p>Eddie pumps his fist lightly. “Fuck yeah.”</p><p>“Oh, c’mon!” Lawrence exclaims. “You just had to boost that ego, didn’t ya? I know pretty boys are great and all, but I’m the one with the big soft cuddles. People love big soft cuddles!”</p><p>Rich expands his arms as he brings you all in for a hug. </p><p>You kiss Steve gently on the cheek. “I’m proud of you, bud,” you whisper.</p><p>"Thank you guys, I just felt like it was time. And now that that's out of the way," Steve grunts as you all untangle yourselves. “I’m gonna go find Freddie. He said he’s taking me out to a club after this!”</p><p>He skips away with a grin, back towards Freddie, who catches your eye with a knowing smile and winks. It seems you weren’t the only band member who had found a fairy godmother in Mr. Mercury.</p><p>You all lightly laugh affectionately at your friend until Eddie and Lawrence wander off to scope out the food situation. You lean against the bar next to Rich, glancing around at the loud laughter erupting from the outgoing crowd. One person noticeably sticks out. A sullen John Deacon sits at the end of the bar, hunched over what looks like a glass of whiskey.</p><p>"Looks like he's in need of a friend," Rich surmises.</p><p>You tear your eyes away from the sorry sight to look at him. "They're around here somewhere," you shrug.</p><p>He rubs your arms up and down lightly before slinking into the crowd, knowingly leaving you alone. </p><p>You sneak a peek over at John. He runs one hand through his curls as the other absentmindedly stirs the straw of his sweating drink. You watch him sigh, bringing the glass to his lips and gulping down the spirit without so much as a wince. </p><p>Hesitantly making your way over to him, you rub your clammy hands over the expensive material of your dress. This is the opposite of avoidance, you scold yourself, silently willing your feet to change direction. But your willpower has seemingly left the building.</p><p>You carefully perch yourself on the stool next to his, as not to disturb his brooding. He glances over quickly, doing a double-take when he realizes who it is.</p><p>"Oh, hello there," he greets you with a small smile. "I didn't know you had arrived."</p><p>You nod your head lightly. "How could you? It seems you set up camp over here."</p><p>"Ah, yes," he breathes, straightening his posture. "Wasn't our best tonight, I'm afraid. Not much to celebrate."</p><p>You take a sip of your water as you continue to nod silently.</p><p>"Actually," he begins, angling his body towards yours, almost slipping off his stool as you notice his apparent intoxication. "I was thinking about that conversation we had. When I met your spritely grandfather."</p><p>"Oh?" you question. Keeping your face neutral even though your heart was already buzzing at the fact.</p><p>"Yes. Mostly about how naive I was—all that bloody nonsense about finding a home. Do me a favor and never take my advice, will you? You'll end up completely wrecking yours."</p><p>This was a bad idea.<br/>"It's just- you draw these lines for yourself in the sand," he drawls, waving his hands about in front of him. "A stupid phrase, really. Where did it even come from?"</p><p>"The Bible," you tell him quietly.</p><p>He lets out a big sigh, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.</p><p>"Well, it's gotten it wrong before, hasn't it?"</p><p>You simply hum an acknowledgment, too scared to probe for fear of where this was going.</p><p>"Anyway, you draw these lines. Moral, physical, promises you make to yourself, things you swear you’d never do, dreams to accomplish," he lists out. "But sand moves about, dunnit? It blows all over the place. Makes a mess. Gets in your sandwich. And those lines blur. Or fade away. And all of a sudden, you've crossed them without even knowing! Broken those promises. Skipped right over those dreams."</p><p>He's too far gone in his rant to register the growing panic sweeping across your features.</p><p>"You were right. Sometimes you look in the mirror, and it's just a complete stranger staring back at you, isn't it?"</p><p>Trying to keep your breathing steady, you stare at the crumbling man before you. He runs his large hands along his face before ducking back into his former position, signaling for the bartender to bring him another drink.</p><p>This is precisely why you should've stuck to your original plan. What were you supposed to say to the man who was so obviously hurting from his failed marriage? So much so that it was pouring out of him. You know that if it weren't for the alcohol, he wouldn't be confiding any of this to you.</p><p>But there was a reason the boys called you the mom of the group, and it wasn't because you were the only female. You feel a pang of need to comfort him. You gaze at him, not with pity, but an overwhelming sense of empathy for the man and make up your mind.</p><p>You clear your throat to answer, brushing away your own warnings about how it would only sink you deeper into your fascination with him.</p><p>"I was wrong, actually," you start as he brings his head up to look at you. "And you know what phrase I hate? That people don't change."</p><p>He furrows his brow but remains silent as you continue.</p><p>"Maybe we're not made up of lines in the sand. Maybe we're the wind?" You try not to cringe at yourself and your poor use of metaphor. "And winds sometimes blow in different directions... but that's okay because it's where life is supposed to take them." Falling silent, you decide to quit while you’re ahead. </p><p>You're not ahead. You're not even out of the gate. What the fuck was that?<br/>A slow smile inches onto his face as he holds your stare. "How did you get so wise for someone your age," he teases.</p><p>"And what age would that be?"</p><p>His mouth opens and closes as he studies your face. "Twenty?"</p><p>"Mm, close. Twenty-four."</p><p>"Really?" he ponders. "Freddie mentioned you dropped out of university."</p><p>"Ah, yes. The university I could only go to after working to afford it," you explain. </p><p>He continues to stare, the look in his eyes shifting slightly as he takes you in. A look that matches the color and intensity of uncharted, open water. You need to get out of here.</p><p>"Well, that explains your extraordinary use of analogy then."</p><p>Dragging your eyes off of his, you glance around at the party you were missing. Gladly missing, unfortunately. </p><p>"I should go check on Steve. He's having a bit of a night," you tell him as you stand. "Try not to drown yourself in those," gesturing to the new glass of whiskey in front of him.</p><p>"How can I drown myself? I thought I was the wind," he points out with a grin.</p><p>Before any more banter can ensue, you simply smile and make your way back to your friends. Thinking to yourself that maybe lines in the sand weren't so bad. And that perhaps it was time for you to start drawing some of your own.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>December 1982 - Columbia Records Holiday Party, New York City</b>
</p><p>"Oh, fuck yes! I love this song!"</p><p>She's a Bad Mama Jamma booms from the speakers around the Whitney Museum, quite jarring in the usually serene space. The modern building is decked out and packed to the brim with the employees of Columbia Records. Tinsel adorned trees, candlelight, and holly had been placed around to embellish the bland white walls, their usual precious art nowhere to be found. Having been replaced by large glossy canvases of the label's album covers from the past year. Various music stars are scattered throughout the crowd, mostly sticking to the cocktail tables on the outskirts, chatting away with high-level executives over bottles of Dom.</p><p>The Limbs, however, had taken up residence in the middle of the main room's large dance floor. The crowd parts around you all as Steve gloriously shimmies to the floor, spreading out as he beings to worm across the slate. You clap a hand over your face to keep the gin in your mouth from sprouting out as cheers ripple through the onlookers.</p><p>"We've created a monster," Rich laughs from beside you, consciously trying not to whack anyone with his long arms.</p><p>"That's on Eddie!" You shout over the roars of encouragement directed at Steve. "Have you seen him yet?"</p><p>Rich grimaces, pausing his careful dancing. "Nope. I doubt he'll show, Bun."</p><p>The debonair guitarist of yours had gone radio silent for weeks, causing concern to spread to his band members. There had been no argument. No blowout. And while you were currently on a break before the holidays, it was extremely odd not to have gotten a harried phone call about some new idea to try on the next album or a near-constant insistence that you all should be preparing more from Eddie.</p><p>"I'm worried, Rich. I'll go take another look around," you tell him somberly as you squeeze your way off the dance floor. After a few walkthroughs of the adjoining rooms, you give up your futile search. Finding a place in one of the quieter galleries, you grab a new drink and beeline to an empty table to drown your growing woes.</p><p><em>Eddie wouldn't miss this</em>. He loved schmoozing and having his photo taken more than anyone else in the group. He lit up when getting noticed on the street—any hint of the spotlight to wander into, really. In high school, he was the graduating senior with the most superlatives: best hair, best eyes, best personality. And he never let any of you forget it.</p><p>You're pulled from your fretting by a nasally high pitched voice calling out your name. "Oh, Y/N! There you are!"</p><p>Unfortunately, you catch the eyes of your junior exec, Lisa Lebeaux. A buoyant and bubbly girl who happened to have a voice that made you crave the sound of nails on a chalkboard. You weren't alone in this. The boys had no-so-affectionately nicknamed her Lisa Leblow, for the hints of white powder under her nose on occasion. Usually, you felt guilty for your undeserved judgment of the woman, but your plastered on smile seemed to have a time limit coming up.</p><p>"I was just talking you up!" she squeaks as she approaches, swinging an unwanted arm over your shoulder. "I'm just so excited for you guys to get back in the studio. I'll pop by whenever I can, promise!"</p><p>Closing your eyes, you groan inwardly. The boys would definitely freak at having the label breathing down your necks during sessions. Tensions were already at an all-time high as you were set to begin recording at The Power Station in January. While it hadn't been spoken out loud, the band was already feeling the pressure. It was a widely known fact that a second album could be a make or break it type of deal. Strong debut? That's great. But can you do it again? Keep the people interested without just repeating yourselves? Or would you end up bungling it altogether, destined to be "that person," who had that one hit, that one time?</p><p>Lisa takes your stoic silence as an open invitation and barrels ahead. "Have you seen that charming guitarist of yours? I've been looking for him everywhere," she pipes up.</p><p>You regard her wearily. "Nope, no perfectly coiffed pompadour in sight, sorry." Her face falls. "Is it important?" you press.</p><p>"Oh, no! Just wanted to say hello is all." She waves it off, but you catch a glimpse of a blush upon her cheeks as she glances around the room. There goes another one, you smirk to yourself. "Oh my god! Bob Dylan actually showed up. I'm gonna try and get an introduction," she exclaims before running off. Calling over her shoulder, "We'll hook up later!"</p><p>"Uh-huh," you mumble while taking note to avoid the flash of her sparkly green dress for the rest of the night. You let out a sigh of relief as your date casually slides in next to you.</p><p>"I thought Leblow would never leave," Dawn gripes as she slides water your way.</p><p>"Oh god, not you too. I know she's a lot, but that nickna-"</p><p>"What did she want anyway?" Dawn asks with a sly smirk. "Did she get you to ride the rail line on the bump train?" You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing your chuckle to stay dormant. "Was it light dusting or a blizzard?"</p><p>"Please stop," you plead, failing to keep in a snort.</p><p>"Was that a SNORT I heard!? You delinquent you. Good thing I was sent to get ya. Gotta keep an eye on you, apparently," Dawn jests as she squeezes your shoulders. "What did she want anyway? I could feel your annoyance from the bar."</p><p>"Nah, it was fine. She was just asking if I'd seen Eddie."</p><p>"Oooo, juicy. Trying to give Leblow another meaning?" she giggles. But your face remains serious. "Dawn, c'mon," you lightly chastise.</p><p>She holds her hands up in surrender. "You're right, you're right. Too far. Anyway, I was sent to retrieve you. The boys require your salsa skills on the dance floor."</p><p>You run your hand along your face, careful not to disturb Dawn's festive eye makeup she painted on you. "In a minute," you sigh. She raises her brows in suspicion. "I promise. Plus, I think Rich is enjoying my date being unoccupied."</p><p>She hides her smirk by bringing her drink up to her ruby red lips. Dawn and Rich had become increasingly close over the past year. There were longing stares, "accidental" physical touches, quiet inside jokes whispered to one another. You were curious as to why Dawn hadn't made a move yet. Her usually forward nature bagged many a man in the past. But you had quietly assumed it has something to do with her position alongside the band. Maybe she just needed a green light.</p><p>"I peeped some mistletoe by the sculptures when I was looking for Eddie," you throw out.</p><p>Her grin is no longer concealed as she lights up brighter than the Christmas tree in the corner. "I'll be back in 15 minutes! And don't make me drag you. I'm not fucking up those heels!" She kisses you swiftly on the cheek before scampering off. You glance down at your feet to the stilettos she'd lent you, fantasizing about chucking them out of the large paned window to your left.</p><p>Downing the water Dawn brought over, you simultaneously snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Mentally high-fiving yourself for heading some words of wisdom that your father had passed on. One glass of water for every drink, and hopefully, you won't make too much of an ass out of yourself.</p><p>Here you are, yet again, you can't help but scold. What happened to adopting the rockstar mentality? Now look at you. Back in a quiet corner, alone with your thoughts and anxiety. You knew only one other musician like that, but you kept that door locked tight. Carefully constructed walls of compartmentalization had been put up to keep your increasing thoughts of a particular bassist at bay. Not once had you even asked about him specifically on your phone calls with Freddie. All in the hope that your silly crush would be quashed by your next chance meeting.</p><p>But your thoughts are quickly brought back to your missing bandmate, the pit in your stomach growing and not from the alcohol. Something had to be wrong. Your gut always had a nagging knack for letting you know. Like when a lover was starting to stray. Or, in this case, when a friend was hurting.</p><p>A blue sport coat slides into your peripherals, and you steal a moment to yourself before having to put on yet another smile.</p><p>"What's a south shore floozy like yourself doing in a place like this?" questions a familiar voice. The same voice that uttered one of Long Island's most used phrases - you either date a rich girl from the north shore or a cool girl from the south shore. The perfect summation of the loving rivalry engrained into every resident.</p><p>"Can't be too bad if a north shore priss like yourself is here," you jest, your voice sounding more confident than you would've thought. A deep laugh rumbles from the man as he extends his hand.</p><p>"Pleasure to meet you, Miss L/N."</p><p>Your now sweaty hand flashes out to meet his. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Joel," you respond sincerely, your grip firm in the hopes of disguising your shock.</p><p>"My bassist Doug has been telling me for months that I should check out the new group of kids from the island. I heard your show at Jones Beach was a knockout. Probably due to what you closed it out with, though." Billy knowingly smiles.</p><p>You have no clue how someone like Billy Joel had heard you'd ended your set with a song of his, but you immediately want to kiss whoever made that happen. "Well, we just had to end the night with something from the grandaddy of Long Island rock n' roll." <em>Oh god.</em></p><p>"Grandaddy?" he clutches his heart in mock hurt. "My kids aren't that old yet."</p><p>"Fuck, I am so sorry. I didn't mean it like that," you rush out, mortification slipping into your plea. "We're just huge fans and-"</p><p>"Hey, hey. It's all good," he chuckles. "But seeing as you're a big fan and you're currently groveling. I actually came over here to ask a favor of you."</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>"The album I got going isn't coming out for a while, but I got this idea for a video in my head. One that would be greatly enhanced by your presence in it." You quirk one eyebrow at him as your stomach somersaults. "That entails..."</p><p>"Well, the hard part is we're going to have to class you up a bit," he teases with that everyman smile of his.</p><p>A giggle falls from your mouth as you pinch yourself, a gentle reminder that you're not a young schoolgirl meeting a cherished rockstar but a fellow musician on the same label. Turning, you try and hide the spreading heat on your cheeks, noticing that your hands weren't the only part of your body sweating now.</p><p>"Really, I'm thinking you just put on a fancy dress and strut around. I have a feeling you'll like the song."</p><p>Lifting a hand to your chin, you pretend to consider his proposition while you glance around at the partygoers. Rich's tall figure slinks into your field of vision. He halts a few paces away, his shoulders shrunk forward as if hesitating to approach. You find his eyes and subtlely point over to Billy in an "oh my god, look" type of fashion.</p><p>But in taking in the rest of his features, you pale. His face is ashen. Entirely blank except for his eyes, which you can now see are rimmed red and glassy. Sighing deeply, he closes the space in two long steps. While shooting Billy an apologetic half-smile, he grabs your hand.</p><p>"Y/N, we have to go."</p><p>
  <strong>- - - - - - -</strong>
</p><p>
  <b>February 1983 - Musicland Studios, Munich</b>
</p><p>"That sounds good to me, Fred. Why don't you come take a listen?"</p><p>As Freddie makes his way out of the booth, John glances over to Roger from his seat behind the sprawling soundboard. "What did you think?" he asks.</p><p>"Oh yeah, very good," Roger mumbles without glancing up from a newspaper he's intently reading on the plush couch. John sighs loudly as Mack cues up the current track.</p><p>"This is your project, you know," he tells him pointedly.</p><p>Queen had finished their Hot Space tour in November of last year, and the four agreed unanimously that a break was in order before starting the next album. A break from the road. More importantly, a break from each other. A "break," which consisted of Freddie, Roger, and Brian taking off on solo projects. Brian to Los Angeles and the other two back in Munich.</p><p>John, on the other hand, had spent his free time finalizing his divorce. Once back home, it had taken a few months to iron out every heartbreaking detail. It hadn't been messy, but the whole experience was utterly enervating. What proved even more difficult was figuring out how to be a present and doting father still. So when his now ex-wife whisked his children off on extended holiday to see her family, John was left alone. In a sparsely decorated flat with only his guilty conscience and desolation by his side. And when Roger called with an invitation to help out on his new album, John (for the first time in his life) jumped at the chance to head to Munich.</p><p>"How was I?" Freddie questions, sauntering over to Roger.</p><p>"Not sure he was even listening."</p><p>"What's got you so-" Freddie peeks his head around the paper Roger's still reading. "Oh, will you look at that!"</p><p>John's brow furrows, but he doesn't move, now quite curious as to what they're fussing over but still wanting to stay on track.</p><p>"I told her she looked good in gem tones. Looks like I was right," Freddie states proudly.</p><p>John huffs as he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry to interrupt, Rog, but did you like the piano Fred laid down for your album."</p><p>Roger finally tears his eyes away with an apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry, let's hear it then." He tosses the paper on the coffee table in front of him as he moves around to the board.</p><p>"I was still looking at that!" Freddie pouts.</p><p>Curiosity getting the better of him, John glances down at the open page.</p><p>A light squeak from his chair rings out as he wheels himself closer for a better look. His eyes widening when he realizes what they were reading.</p><p>"They lost. Fucking Toto and their incessantly catchy Africa song," Freddie fills him in. "They're Best New Artist in my heart."</p><p>"I like Africa. It's got a lot of layers to it," Roger comments from his perch over Mack's shoulder. "Plus, Lawrence said they weren't expecting much. Just excited to go to the damn thing."</p><p>In the upper right corner of the article sits a grainy color photo of The Limbs on the Grammy's red carpet. John smiles to himself as he picks it up. Excited, they were indeed. Y/N's face is spread into a flashing smile, clearly laughing from the apparent squeeze Rich's hand was giving to her mid-section. They looked adorably out of place for the sort of occasion. Lawrence's arms hang awkwardly by his side. Eddie is mid hair fix. Steve's face is beet-red from excitement. And Rich's gaze is pulled towards Y/N as if checking to make sure she was enjoying the moment.</p><p>"Alright, you'll have time to moon over it later," Roger snorts. "Let's get back to work."</p><p>"You're the one- oh, never mind," John grumbles, scooching his chair back over to the board.<em> I wasn't mooning,</em> he thinks to himself. However, it was hard not to notice that Y/N did look good in that colour. Stunning, really.</p><p>He thinks back to their amusing first meeting. In all honestly, he found himself thinking about it more and more recently. Her looks weren't the sort that slapped you in the face; it was a kind of subtle beauty that sneaks up on you. Although, it's hard to miss it once she laughs. Big, bright, and wide with a flash of teeth. The kind of laugh that soothes and shocks you all at once. John finds it hard to wipe off the smile set on his face, not able to conceal his fondness for the young woman. The same one he hadn't spoken to since his last time in New York.</p><p>Freddie talked to her quite often from what he could surmise of the semi-frequent updates he got on the band. Roger and Brian as well conversed on occasion with the boys. John wasn't surprised. He was undoubtedly a far cry from the most memorable of the group. But he found that he had to stop himself every so often from inquiring after Y/N's phone number. Not that he was sure Freddie would even give it to him. The man had become rather protective of her.</p><p><em>What would you even say?</em> Barley remembering what he'd rambled on about the last time they spoke due to his stupor, John could only recall her immediate kindness and comfort at his despair.</p><p>Freddie loudly clears his throat, and he looks up to a knowing stare from the man. It's pointed as if a warning of some sort. "Shall we?"</p><p>- - - - - - -</p><p>
  <b>August 1983 - Record Plant, Los Angeles</b>
</p><p>
  <em>No way. It's too big.</em>
</p><p>While pacing the studio floors, you tilt your head upwards, taking in its expansive ceilings. The walls are decorated in exposed wood, casting warmth around the room. An oddly intimidating warmth. As if the windowless cavern was lulling you into a false sense of ease.</p><p>The Limbs were back in Los Angeles, their first time being a two-night stay during the last leg of their tour a few months ago. You had found that you weren't particularly fond of the city. It was the antithesis of New York. Sprawling and vast. With people spread out instead of stacked on top of each other. Everyone you had met was overly pleasant and complimentary, a far cry from the usual "mean but well-meaning" attitude you had grown up with.</p><p>It had been a year and a half since the release of Quiet Lies. But your plans to record back in January at The Power Station in New York were pushed due to an unexpected tragedy that had hit your young group.</p><p>Right around the holidays, Eddie's mother, Mary, had passed away from stage four pancreatic cancer. From what you had gathered from his father, it had been painful but quick. All the while, Eddie had suffered in silence, shutting himself away for weeks. The group having to find out from their parents only after she was gone.</p><p>It had come as a shock to you all. Mary had always been a force. Stubborn as an ox and tough as nails. A short-tempered Irish Catholic woman who took no one's shit except for her eldest son's- and his gaggling group of four friends. She had driven the boys to every odd gig they played as teens: Block parties, retirement gatherings, the occasional bar-mitzvah. Mary was the first to get a copy of your record, promptly inviting everyone in a ten-block radius over to the house to listen. She was the band's number one fan.</p><p>More than that, she was your friend—a woman who was also your confidant. While you cherished your relationship with your mother, her disability often led to a disjunction in communication. You knew it was your own impatience, but it was sometimes easier to unload on Mary. And her unwavering wisdom and bluntness had never failed you. Going as far as to even get you a job at a local restaurant out of high school to help pay for college, coming in a minimum of three times a week to leave you a tip that put all others to shame.</p><p>At first, you were downright livid. Livid at Eddie for preventing you all from saying goodbye. But once you saw him, unshaven, despondent, not a single lick of pomade in his locks, you knew better. He had been broken. His typical firey spirit gone with Mary. Losing a parent was something you couldn't begin to comprehend. The mere thought of it sent you reeling. So you did what you always did—endeavoring to gently nurse the shell of your friend back to something somewhat whole. Except for at Mary's funeral. Where you had just stood there. Blank. Cursing yourself for never being able to show emotion when you felt like the situation called for it.</p><p>But that was December, and the Eddie that stood alongside you now was a different man. More combative and cynical, lashing out over minor details that weren't to his exact liking. It was a miracle that he had finally agreed to record in LA.</p><p>"So, what are we thinking?" the voice of the owner, Gary Kellergen, rings out over the pa system from the control room.</p><p>Glancing around at the four boys, you notice a similar air of unease. Save for Steve, who is animatedly banging on various objects while marveling as acoustics bounce about.</p><p>"They love it! How could they not, right guys?" your producer answers for you all. David Foster, the steadily rising mega-producer/writer that the label had hired to "help out." This wasn't your first time working with him, either. To quell Columbia's worries over your extended break from recording, you had all agreed to sign on to an unexpected project. Producers from the film Valley Girl had reached out about a possible single for their soundtrack, and your managers had thrown it to you faster than Ron Guidry pitches for the Yankees.</p><p>Eddie had taken point, needing to throw himself into something to keep his ever-spiraling mind at bay. Locking himself in a studio with David, they wrote She's A Beauty with minimal input from the rest of the group. Usually, this would've caused a rift between the boys, who traditionally composed as a cohesive unit. But as all your jobs nowadays seemed to be placating Eddie's whims, you had signed off on the pop-rock concoction. That being said, it had worked out well for the band in the end.</p><p>"It's perfect, Gary. Thank you," Eddie slides in with comfortable smoothness. The man waves from behind the glass as he departs, leaving you all alone with David.</p><p>"Only the best for you guys. A band with a number two single deserves it all," he comments as he spreads his arms wide. Rich, Lawrence, and yourself all demurely nod.</p><p>"Can we get some time alone in the space?" Rich asks evenly, meeting your worried eyes briefly.</p><p>The man slaps him on the shoulder as if they were old pals. "Of course, I'm sure you're all ready to get to work while the guys load everything in. I'll be back in a few days to hear what you got for me!" You all watch as he strolls out of the studio with an air of earned confidence. The "for me" comment strikes you, but you push it down as Steve bounces over.</p><p>"Are we ready to rock and roll, friends?" Scattered chuckles ricochet off the walls as the phrase used frequently amongst your fathers sets you all at ease. Steve springs to the door to begin loading in your equipment.</p><p>"Hold on." Eddie plops his backpack to the floor as he grabs several sheets of paper, passing them around to his confused friends.</p><p>"What's this?" Lawrence questions hesitantly.</p><p>"Just an idea I had for our first single."</p><p>Bewildered, you look over the sheet. Eddie never writes lyrics first. It was something you did that the boys had immediately thought was odd. Although, the rest of the group had also taken to writing their own ideas due to the prolonged hiatus and partially in response to Eddie's stunt he pulled with David.</p><p>A skeptical huff leaves Rich's mouth as he reads on, and with a song titled "Naughty Naughty," you had to agree.</p><p>"Ed..." he cautions with a cock of his head. Eddie waits patiently for one of you to say something, his face unreadable.</p><p>Steve bravely bites the bullet. "The lyrics are a bit much. Maybe too on the nose?"</p><p>"In what way?"</p><p>"Well," Lawrence joins in. "For starters, the sheer amount of times the word naughty is used."</p><p>"Naughty naughty, cute and horny, tease me," Rich reads aloud for effect. "Naughty, naughty, naughty, I'm a naughty, naughty guy."</p><p>A snicker comes from the front of a room, one of the employees who was unloading amps overhearing Rich's deadpan presentation.</p><p>Eddie lets out an unsettling chortle. "I had you guys going there for a sec." He smirks at your skeptical faces.</p><p>"What the fuck, dude?" Lawrence counters, rightfully annoyed.</p><p>Eddie shrugs nonchalantly. "I just wanted to see how far you'd all go to appease me. I want this album to be the best it can be, and that won't happen if you're all tip-toeing around my feelings."</p><p>Biting your lip, you study Eddie. Not knowing whether his test was real or his defensive mechanisms were flaring up.</p><p>"You can fuck right off," Steve uncharacteristically snipes. "I mean, c'mon. Who pulls that shit? We're already freaking out."</p><p>"What are the children quarreling about now?" a lithy British voice filters into the room via the com system. Five heads quickly turn to find a spindling Brian May behind the soundboard.</p><p>"H-E-double hockey sticks, what is he doing here?" Lawrence questions aloud.</p><p>Brian gracefully lopes into the room, quickly bringing you in for a light hug. "Lovely to see you, Y/N," he smiles.</p><p>"You too, Brian," you stutter, still in shock by his presence. "I gotta echo Lawrence on this one. What are you doing here?"</p><p>Brian explains as he makes the rounds, being sure to pull Eddie in for a proper hug. The grim upturn of his lips telling you that he's aware of his loss.</p><p>"Heard you were starting today and wanted to pop over and say hi. We just wrapped up for the day. I'm over in Studio C recording with a few friends out here," he explains.</p><p>"Friends?" you mummer, taking in a sharp breath at the implication of who else could be with him.</p><p>"Roger and John will be arriving next week to start on the album," he says knowingly. "Freddie probably sometime after that, who knows. I'm doing a side project at the moment. A few people I think you'd like to meet actually. But first, let's get back to what you were all bickering about before I interrupted."</p><p>Eddie cuts in casually, "We're all just a bit nervous to start the album, I think."</p><p>"Mmm," Brian muses. "A fair conundrum. I've found that one thing helps to kick off the months of grueling agony."</p><p>Eyebrows raise all around as the five of you lean in intently.</p><p>Brian smirks - something up his sleeve. "A simple jam session."</p>
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